Birds of the Summer
by Nikola11
Summary: When Kurt leaves Ohio to escape his alcoholic partner, he takes his gymnastics-loving, four-and-a-half year-old son River and moves to Massachusetts for a fresh start. At the new gym, he meets Blaine and his five-year-old son Jude, a proficient young gymnast like River.
1. Prologue: The Hairpin Turn

The facilities were enormous, much larger than the ill-equipped gym lodged just outside of Lima and sunk down between an abandoned quarry and a strip of twenty-four-hour diners. A corner of the floor space looked dedicated to much younger children, with a slide, low beam, and plenty of tiny-finger-friendly toys, while the rest of the area was neatly partitioned into sections by skill.

River's little feet tapped excitedly as he watched a young girl on a nearby beam, dismounting effortlessly before climbing up to do it again. Her instructor stood behind her, murmuring directions and eying the routine as she performed it with a discerning gaze as a few other kids waited nearby for their turn. Kurt tugged back on his son's hand when the youngster tried to escape towards the tumble track, and he was met with glistening grey eyes interrupted by messy auburn curls.

"We have to go sign you in, then your teacher will put you in a class, and _then _you can tumble to your tiny heart's consent," Kurt reasoned with the pouting boy, who sighed an all-grown-up, big-boy, four-years-old sigh, and followed his daddy around the outside of the gym, careful not to interrupt any practicing on their way to the offices.

Just before they reached the toddler corner, with the offices on the other side, River stopped walking and stared up at the equipment they had just passed. Kurt turned to see why River had stopped and, following his line of sight, glanced up to the uneven bars.

A boy, a tiny, one-fall-could-kill-him boy with tight black curls plastered to his little head flew between the bars like he was born there. He hardly could be older than River, six at the very most, but he demonstrated skills that some of the pre-teens milling about seemed envious of. Small hands pushed off and the boy twisted towards the blue mat, sticking his landing perfectly and lifting his arms in the air in triumph. A man, his coach, presumably, clapped him on the back with a grin and sent the kid over to a beam while an older girl took over the bars.

"Come on, River," Kurt tugged once again at his son's hand and pulled him to the very back of the gym.

"Did you _see _that?!" River gasped, trying to walk while twisting back around to catch a glimpse of the boy. "Holy _cow_, he's so _good_."

Kurt laughed and pushed open the heavy wooden door. "Well, so are you, munchkin. After all, that's why we're here, isn't it?"

With a frown and a final look around the room, River nodded and they went inside the office to officially get him enrolled for training.

Blaine sat on the metal bleachers off to the side and near the front of the gym with his laptop open and a few notebooks piled up on the seat next to him. Occasionally he'd glance up and watch the kids flit about the room, fly off of beams and hurl themselves into vault jumps. He'd catch one set of eyes in particular and those little arms would wave back at him enthusiastically, asking, _Did you see my new trick? _to which he'd nod with a bright smile and a wave back, _Of course!_

He grinned and went back to his writing, only to look back up when the large front doors opened and let in a quick blast of cool wind followed by a tall man towing a small boy behind him. Blaine had never seen them around the gym before, and as he knew most of the regular parents of enrolled children, he assumed the boy and his father were either new to town or only just getting started with training. He watched them skirt the voracious activity on the floor, kids of all ages flinging themselves about in astounding shows of strength, and head to the back offices. As they passed the uneven bars, Blaine noticed his own little boy taking his turn and watched with a tight smile and gently-held breath until he'd landed safely, both feet on the floor again. He missed the new boy and his father watching as enraptured as he was in his anxiety; it's been years, he should be used to it, but apparently watching your five-and-a-half year old son sling himself around eight feet off the ground never gets any easier on the heart.

Blaine glanced at his watch and packed up his laptop. There were only twenty minutes left in the day's session; he'd watch his son do his beam work and then they'd go out to lunch, the same every day, and then spend the afternoon watching their favorite movies and falling asleep on the couch. He smiled in his musings, didn't even notice someone sit near him until he heard papers shuffling and a muttered oath when something hard hit the carpeted floor. He turned in time to see the new father crouch down to pick up his dropped cell phone, lucky for him they're only one the second tier, and sit back down a few feet away, trying to organize the mess of forms in his hands.

"You're new," Blaine stated, watching startled blue eyes find his.

The man sighed, gave up on the papers and stuck out a hand, "Kurt Hummel."

"Blaine Anderson," he said and took the proffered shake. "I saw you come in. Are you just starting?"

Kurt laughed, high and breathy, and shook his head with a little roll of his eyes. "God, no. We've been doing this since he could crawl. I used to take him to the gym with me and it was all we could do to keep him off the trampoline."

Blaine grinned, noticed his son wrapping up his practice for the day, and fished out a little device from his laptop bag and held it in his lap.

"Same for us, really. You do gymnastics, as well?" Blaine asked conversationally, watching Kurt shove his new files into his shoulder bag and nod.

"I started much later, but yes. Only for recreation, though. River wants to compete for real."

"How old is he?" Blaine asked, watched a girl start a complicated floor routine.

"Four and a half. But he acts like he's twelve."

Blaine nodded in understanding. "And what level is he in? Three?"

"Actually, he's a level six," Kurt stated with more than a bit of pride in his tone.

Blaine's brows went up in surprise and then lowered in humor. "That's incredible! Same as my kid, in fact; they'll be in the same class."

A buzzer sounded through the gym, as it did every hour, and some groups of kids wandered off the mats while others stayed on. One little boy, obviously not quite dressed for a day on the mats, ran up to the bleachers and climbed into Kurt's lap.

"Daddy, this place is _awesome_, I can't wait for tomorrow!"

Kurt laughed and ruffled the large, loose curls atop his son's head. "I'm glad, kiddo. You ready to go?"

"Yes!" River bounced out of his dad's lap and grabbed one large hand to pull him up and off the bench.

"I guess we'll see you around?" Kurt turned to Blaine, who nodded and beamed at something over Kurt's shoulder just before a small body streaked past River and Kurt and collided with Blaine. The man laughed and hoisted the boy into his arms, nuzzling their faces together.

"Daddy, it's _that_ boy!" River gaped openly as they watched Blaine set his son down and hand him the little over-ear aid and help him get it on properly. Once the boy was set, River bounded up to him and started talking a mile a minute, telling him how _awesome _he was and how _cool _and _geez, _you went so_ high_!

The poor boy frowned as he stared at River's mouth and shook his head. Kurt tried to reel in his son, shooting an apologetic glance to Blaine, who stood there looking mildly amused.

"Sorry," Kurt murmured, finally hauling River up and into his arms where the boy simply draped himself over one broad shoulder and hung there.

Blaine laughed. "Don't worry about it, he's just a kid." He then turned to his son and knelt down to his level, raising his hands up so he could see, and started to sign while speaking.

"Jude, this is River and his dad, Kurt. River will be in your class starting tomorrow."

Jude's already incredibly large green eyes got even wider and he smiled ecstatically, small hands a blur in front of him as he spoke to his dad, who chuckled and translated out loud.

"He says he hopes River will be his friend, because the other kids in his class are a bit older than he is, and he doesn't have someone his own age to train with."

River, voice muffled from where his face pressed into Kurt's shirt, mumbled, "Of course I'll be your friend, dummy," and snuggled closer in his dad's arms.

Kurt smiled and gripped his boy just a bit tighter, turning to Blaine. "I'll see you tomorrow, then, yeah?"

Blaine nodded. "Absolutely. See you tomorrow."

With a last smile, Kurt grabbed up his bag, waved goodbye to Blaine and Jude, and walked out of the complex into the parking lot. He settled River into his car seat and flicked on the built-in DVD player in the back of the passenger headrest. It was a bit of a drive from their new home in Quincy to the center up in Burlington, and an incredibly active child won't simply sit still for forty minutes without a little help from Disney. His father installed it for River's fourth birthday, just before they moved.

"What do you want for lunch, Little Monster?" Kurt called into the backseat and he buckled himself in.

"Ham and cheese sandwich!" came the reply, and Kurt nodded.

"Ham and cheese sandwiches, it is," he said to himself, took one last look at the large building, and pulled out of the lot for the road.


	2. This is Not What We Meant to Be

The house is a wreck.

It's nice, with hardwood floors and good light in a nice neighborhood, but a week after we'd moved in and not much had gotten done in terms of unpacking. The only room completely furnished and cleaned is River's; half of my clothes sit still in their boxes and a dresser leans mostly unfinished against one wall. Perhaps the worst part is that we're still waiting for my dad to drive over with the last of our stuff.

Our new basement is large; two small windows high up on the back wall, a couple of square pillars across the center, but really it's just a room the size of the foundation, an empty rectangle. Whoever owned the place last had it done with soft beige carpet, left the walls stark white, and put in numerous recessed lights. A small closet under the stairs housed a few dust bunnies and nothing else.

This room was River's.

Back in Ohio all of his gymnastics home equipment had stayed at his grandparents' house in my old, empty bedroom. We lived in an apartment, River, his dad, and I, and having gym equipment in it simply wasn't an option. I came home from a long weekend away when River was three to find my father standing with a bouncing River and a shit-eating grin on his face in my old bedroom, now carpeted with mats and adorned with a kip bar and a low beam and a pommel horse training pod that River couldn't stay off of for five seconds, he needed to show me _right now, Daddy, look!_ He spent the next two hours doing everything; he made up a little beam routine on the spot, had my father show me how his new high bar could be adjusted and how to strap on the rings so he could practice with those, too. Then he dragged out some incline mats and rolled around for a bit while I cried into my dad's shoulder because he just bought my kid thousands of dollars of gymnastics training equipment and my son never looked happier. I went downstairs to find River's other dad, grinning like a fool and wanting to share River's joy with him, but he was on the phone in the kitchen, a glass of whiskey in one hand and the bottle within reach, his face already flushed with alcohol.

We left just over a year later.

Now, standing in that huge, ready-to-be-filled basement, I never felt more like I was making the right decision. River would be happy here.

* * *

"River, come on, we're going to be late!" I call up the stairs, River's kit bag in one hand and my thermos of coffee in the other. All of River's enrollment papers had been signed, sealed, and stuffed deep in my satchel, ready to be handed in for River's first official day of training at Brestyan's.

"No!" comes a high-pitched wail from the top of the stairs just before he starts barreling down them, one arm fumbling to get through the proper hole in his shirt.

I roll my eyes, set his kit bag down in the hall and go to help him, holding his arm still and slipping it into the shirt. His curls are especially rumpled after the ordeal, but we don't have time for me to brush them like I want to, as River has already scooped up his bag and was now hanging from the front door handle.

Forty minutes later and I'm struggling to park the car in the lot and get out before River strangles himself trying to undo all the straps in his car booster himself. The moment I have his door open and his little body freed, he's out onto the pavement and skipping towards the glass front doors of the center.

"Jesus," I mutter to myself and then call out for him to "Wait, River, there are _cars_, Jesus _Christ_," all before I manage to grab both my own satchel and his kit bag, as well as my coffee, lock the car, and bolt over to him where he's waiting not-so-patiently-at-all next to a gleaming Rolls Royce Phantom from last year's line. I shoot the car an appropriately fond look, grab onto my charge's little hand, and haul the both of us and all our stuff across the slowly filling lot and into the building.

Twenty minutes later, after handing in River's forms and helping him with his new locker, I let myself fall into a seat on the bleachers, clutching my coffee to my chest and contemplating what seven-thirty in the morning in early June means to people without ambitious preschoolers.

A breathy chuckle to my left snaps me out of it, and I look to see Blaine gingerly taking the seat next to me, eyebrows raised as if to ask permission. When I nod in greeting he relaxes into his seat, setting his bag on the floor by his feet and eyes scanning the large room.

"Rough morning?" he ask genially, watches a couple of kids come out of the locker room to start stretching on the large floor.

I grunt, take a sip of coffee, and reply, "Only a bit. Just something to get used to."

He nods and then smiles when his little boy runs out onto the floor, River right behind, and they both fall straight down onto the mats where Jude begins showing River their stretching routine.

"They look so small," I note, watching some of the other boys and girls in the group start doing handstands and backbends, looming over the two boys that sink effortlessly into splits.

Blaine nods. "The next youngest after Jude just turned eight. Most of them are nine or nearly nine, so Jude is ecstatic about having River with him."

"I'll bet," I agree, quietly chugging more coffee. I'm going to have to sneak out for a refill at this rate, so I pull out my phone to Google the nearest coffee shop, finding one just a couple blocks over. Blaine glances at my screen and laughs. I frown at him, and he hastily stops.

"No, don't worry about it," he says quickly, "I was the same when we started this, too. Sometimes I couldn't function at all until I'd had at least two cups."

I grin a little sheepishly. "I never really used to drink coffee, not until I had River."

"Kids change a lot of things," Blaine remarks.

"That they do," I sigh, glancing around to see some of the other parents behind us on the bleachers, then look back out onto the floor. Jude and River stand a little off to the side while some of the older kids tumble across the floor. Their class isn't large, only about ten kids, but it doesn't stop them from looking so entirely out of place. Finally the others let up so that Jude and River can have a go, bounding across the mats with a practiced ease, and I notice something odd.

"Where's their coach?" I mutter, more to myself than anything, but Blaine answers with a sly little grin.

"Don't worry, he should be here soon."

Sure enough, not two minutes later the back office doors open and a tall man in black track pants, white t-shirt, and bare feet comes skipping over to the small group. He quickly rounds them up into a line and then sends them off on a jog around the large square floor mat, Jude and River at the back of the pack. A quick check to make sure they're all doing as told and the coach turns toward the bleachers and waves. I frown, confused, until I hear Blaine chuckle and turn in time to see him wave back. I peek up at the other parents and no one else seems to have even noticed.

The coach gives one more glance at his little pack of gymnasts before slipping up to the bleachers and hanging off the rail right in front of Blaine.

"Looks like Jude made a new friend," he remarks, to which Blaine nods emphatically.

"Yeah, River, and this is his dad, Kurt," Blaine jerks a thumb at me as River's new coach looks me up and down.

"Coach Cooper," the man says, sticking out a hand for me to shake. When I do, he grips it perhaps a little too tightly, then lets go abruptly.

"Thanks for letting River join," I say determined to remain polite. "I know the season's already started."

Cooper shakes his head. "No worries. The kid's a spitfire, he'll catch right up, I'm sure."

I nod. "Well. Thanks, anyway."

"Anyway," Cooper continues, "I've got to get back, but Blaine, dinner tonight, yeah?"

Blaine grins. "Absolutely, we'll be there at seven."

"Cool. See you around, Kurt," Cooper says, jumping down from the rail and turning to leave before I can reply.

I look to Blaine for some guidance, but he's too busy staring fondly across the room at Cooper, who's holding little Jude up on the parallel bars to help him get the proper technique down.

"So, Cooper is your…?" I start, waiting for Blaine to fill in the rest. He blinks and looks at me, cocks his head in confusion so I nod towards Cooper and then to him, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh!" he says, then flushes with a laugh. "Oh, god, Cooper's my brother. No. God, no."

"Well then," I say, smiling a bit at his red cheeks and reaching down to grab my bag from the floor, "I think I'm going to go grab another coffee. They won't need me for anything, will they?"

Blaine shakes his head, still smiling. "No, you're good. Need help finding it?"

I wave my phone at him as I stand from the bench. "I'm good. I'll be back in a bit."

"I'll be here," Blaine says, already pulling a laptop from his bag.

I make sure to catch River's eye on my way out and give him thumbs up before I start the quick walk down to the coffee shop.

* * *

I make it back to the gym, coffee in hand, to find the parking lot nearly full and two new groups of kids inside. When I get to the bleachers, Blaine explains that they are the levels six and seven recreation groups, and that the equipment in the gym is divided between the recreation groups and the team. Cooper's level six class is a competitive class; the class trains together on the specified team equipment, but are split into boys' and girls' competitive teams at meets. The recreation classes have designated beams, mats, and a vault, and have different coaches. So while Jude practices on the team uneven bars, and River works on one of the team beams, the other, larger, classes stay on the opposite side.

"Less confusion about who belongs where," Blaine goes on to say, "and it keeps things from getting muddled. The team equipment gets set very specifically, so there's less setting and re-setting this way."

I nod, taking it all in. It's so different from where we were; these kids are here because they love gymnastics, and my kid is getting the chance to realize his dreams of competing professionally.

"It's such a dichotomy. There weren't any team options back in Ohio," I admit quietly, watching Cooper instruct River through his dismount from beam. He sticks it, wobbles only a little, then turns to grin at me. I clap for him and give him a proud smile. "The gym was small, and some of the equipment was getting a little past its time. A lot of the parents used it more as a daycare than a training facility; River was the only kid actually invested in it, but the coaches really didn't give a crap. It's a little odd to be here and see so many kids all as serious about it as he is."

Blaine smiles, sets his laptop on the bench to his left and nudges his shoulder off mine. "I promise you, River will _thrive _here. Cooper can be just as childish as his students, but he's an amazing gymnast and a wonderful coach."

"Thank you," I say, and it comes out a little tight but Blaine doesn't seem to notice. He gives me one last long look, then picks his computer up and goes back to work. With a sigh I dig out a battered journal from my bag and my notebook and start expanding on some of the ideas I'd catalogued in the journal over the last few months.

Either Blaine doesn't read much, or he's simply not a fan of historical fiction, but I'm almost glad he hasn't recognized my name. I've only put out two books so far, and both of them since having River, but the second one just recently hit best-seller and its success is still climbing. Halfway through college I switched from design to writing, and for those few years when I thought I'd made the stupidest decision of my life, my father became my number-one fan and supporter. His constant, sometimes overbearing encouragement pushed me through that first novel, and while it wasn't a best-seller, it did quite well. My partner and I had River through surrogacy, and he came two months before my book hit print. That day my father took me aside, told me he was proud of me, and said that my kid was '_the luckiest goddamn boy ever born'_.

Looking out at him now, skinny little arms holding him up on the pommel horse and Cooper showing him how to keep his back straight, I hope my father was right.

* * *

Hours later the buzzer drones through the speakers and River's class bolts for the locker rooms. I take my time packing up my notebooks and papers that, somehow, got spread between the floor, the end of the bleacher to my right, and the empty seats on the level behind me. When it's all stuffed back into my bag, I stand and stretch out, wishing for an instant that I could run out and do some layouts to take that crick out of my neck. I haven't done too much in the way of gymnastics for the last couple of years; maybe here I can get back into it a little.

I don't have much time to muse on it before River runs over, then climbs my back like a monkey so he can drop his deadweight across my shoulder, leaving his kit bag on the floor at my feet.

"Did you have a good day?" I ask him, to which he nods and mumbles, "…hungry…", into the back of my shirt. I laugh and squat down to scoop up his bag at the same time Jude runs over to Blaine and starts a silent conversation.

"Alright, kiddo, let's go get you some lunch," I say to River, then wave goodbye to Blaine, who looks up at me a bit distractedly, and turn to head out. I don't get very far before I feel a tugging on my shirt and look around to find Jude standing there, hopeful smile on his face, and small fingers forming words I don't understand. I glance behind him to Blaine, who stands with both hands tucked into his pockets and a sheepish smile on his face.

"What's he saying?" I ask him, taking Jude's hand and walking him back over to his father. I expect him to let go and run back to Blaine, but he keeps hold of my hand and stares up at me with hopeful green eyes.

"Well," Blaine starts, scuffing a toe into the carpet, "he asked if you and River would like to come to lunch with us."

River jolts upright, twisting around to look down at Jude and then turning to me, nodding happily.

"Can we, daddy?" he implores, and then his eyes go impossibly wide in supplication.

I sigh and turn to Blaine. "I don't want to intrude," I start, but Blaine waves it off.

"It's no problem." He snatches up his bag, gives Jude his hearing aid, and then leads the way out of the building. "Jude and I go to this little diner a few minutes from here most days after practice. It's never crowded, and Jude swears that fries made anywhere else taste, and I quote, 'like butt'."

The laugh bubbles up and out of me, cheerful and light, and it makes me wonder if I can remember the last time I laughed like that.

"Well, thank you, we'd love to," I assure him before we part ways in the lot. "We'll follow you?"

"Sure," Blaine nods, "Where are you?"

I point to a row a few down from where we stand. "The black Navigator about halfway down."

"Cool, we'll see you in a minute, then."

River gets set up in his seat easily but leaves the DVD player off, instead chatting on excitedly about everything he did today while I slide into the front and buckle up. He's explaining how 'Coach Coop' had him try every apparatus to assess his skill level when the Rolls Royce I'd admired that morning pulls to a slow stop in front of us and Blaine waves happily from the front seat.

"Of course," I exhale, pulling out slowly from the space and following a respectful distance behind Blaine out of the parking lot.

* * *

Over grilled chicken sandwiches and mountains of curly fries in a nostalgic diner, Jude teaches River and I some rudimentary sign language.

He points to his father, then splays his fingers out and touches his thumb to his forehead. River grins when he turns to sign it to me.

"What's 'mom'?" River asks, watching as Jude moves his hand down and touches the thumb of his spread-finger hand to his chin.

Jude then goes on to painstakingly teach River the alphabet over their empty plates while Blaine and I force down the last of our own sandwiches.

"I really shouldn't be amazed anymore at how much he eats after practices," I comment, picking at the fries on my plate.

Blaine laughs in agreement, steals a fry from my plate and pops it in his mouth. I look over to see Jude grab River's hand and force it into the proper shape to sign an 'e'.

"So, is his mother into gymnastics, as well?" I ask with a nod towards Jude. "My partner was never interested in it, but I suppose not everyone is."

In an instant Blaine's face falls and I try to take it back, "It's none of my business, really, sorry," but he waves it away.

"No, it's okay," he says, looking down at his arms folded on the table top. "And, I don't know, my _husband_ wasn't around long enough for us to find out."

I feel like a jackass, and it must show on my face because then Blaine reaches out to pat my hand.

"Really, Kurt, don't worry about it," he assures me, "it's not like you could tell."

"I'm still sorry," I mumble, and Blaine smiles a little. "I know how it feels; River and I left his other dad before we came here."

"He didn't support the gymnastics?" Blaine inquires, one eyebrow quirked up.

I shook my head. "He cared more about his job and his booze than he did for either of us," I say with a shrug.

Blaine just looks at me for a long minute, then pulls out his wallet and tosses some cash onto the table.

"Hey, no," I protest, clawing for my own wallet, but Blaine's already collecting Jude from the booth and hauling me out, too.

"Shut up, it's on me," he replies, making sure I've got River before he gently nudges me for the door.

Outside, he steers us to the right down the street instead of left towards our cars.

"Where are we going?" I ask, letting River walk just a few steps ahead of us with Jude.

"There's a playground just down here, by this neighborhood. I thought a walk might be nice," he trails off, unsure, but I smile and nod to put him at ease.

The walk takes just a few minutes, and then Jude and River are off after Jude presses his hearing aid into his dad's hand. The boys, of course, head straight for the bars and start climbing. Blaine picks out a bench situated in some shade, drops his bag to rest on the gravel before he sits down, and nods to the space next to him. I slouch into the seat with a small sigh, watching River run over to the pull-up bars and start swinging around. I'm about to run over to him, there aren't any mats here, those bars are _metal_, but Blaine puts a hand on my arm.

"He'll be fine," he placates, and doesn't remove his hand until I've relaxed.

We watch the kids in silence for a little while, my heart occasionally pounding in fear when River decides to do a trick on the bars or trips as he chases Jude.

"What was his name?" Blaine asks, but keeps his eyes on Jude. I don't have to ask to know who he's talking about.

"Henry," I answer. "Henry Morgan."

"And he was an alcoholic?"

"Not until we had River," I admit, keeping my eyes on my shoes and pushing little bits of gravel around with my toes. "What about yours?"

Blaine takes a moment before he replies. "His name was Paul. Morris. Paul Morris."

"You left him?" I ask, and Blaine only nods. "Why?"

Another moment, longer this time, before Blaine speaks so quietly I have to lean into him a bit to hear.

"Jude wasn't born deaf; it was a present from his daddy."

For only the second time in my life, I'm rendered speechless. The first happened the moment River was placed in my arms after his birth. And right now, every word seems inadequate. What do you say to that?

So I don't say anything. I reach over and put a gentle hand atop one of Blaine's. He's still for some time, and I consider taking my hand back, but then he turns his palm upwards and curls his fingers loosely around mine. We don't say anything else for a long while.

Half an hour later the boys run up to our bench, River in front and Jude just behind, cradling one hand against his chest.

"What's wrong?" Blaine signs and says when Jude comes to a stop in front of him, sniffling a little.

"He fell off the bar and scraped his arm a little," River says as Jude uncurls his arm and holds it out for his dad to see.

Blaine leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Jude's wrist, just above the abrasion, then straightens up to sign and speak once more.

"I don't have any bandages with me, will you be alright until we get home?"

Jude nods, but I'm already rummaging through my bag.

"Hang on, here," I say, pulling out a small travel-size first-aid kit and snapping it open. I pass Blaine an alcohol wipe, antibiotic ointment, and a wide bandage, which he takes with a smile.

"Thank you, Kurt," he sings, then pulls Jude in so that the boy is sitting on his lap while he cleans and bandages the scrape. He ends it with a kiss, right on top of the bandage, and Jude hugs him with a grin.

My phone beeps with a text, and I check the time in passing- four in the afternoon. We've been out for nearly three hours.

The text is a simple:

_I'm an hour out, kid, tell River he can stop worrying. –Burt_

I laugh and slip my phone into my pocket as I stand and pull my satchel over my shoulder.

"Thank you for lunch, Blaine, this was really nice," I speak down to the man who's still sitting with his son on his lap, cuddled close, "but I'm afraid we need to leave. There's a very important delivery on the way." I say the last bit with a pointed look at River, who lights up.

"Grandpa's coming?" he asks, and when I nod he does a little dance on the spot.

"My dad's bringing all of River's home equipment, he's very excited to get it back," I explain to Blaine, as he's watching River dance with mild bemusement.

"Ah, well thanks for hanging out with us," Blaine says, standing with Jude and shifting the boy onto his hip. "I guess we'll see you at the gym tomorrow?"

I nod, grabbing River's hand as the four of us make the short walk back to the diner's parking lot.

"Thanks again, Blaine. Take care," I say quietly, giving his arm a gentle squeeze and patting Jude on the back in parting. "Bye, Jude."

The little boy waves us off with a smile, and moments later River sits in his booster watching Cars as we head for home.

* * *

We get home in plenty of time for River to run upstairs and have a shower while I empty a few boxes in the living room and kitchen, organizing the cupboards and lining the mantle with pictures of myself and River. I don't hear my dad's truck pull up, but River sure does. He comes squealing down the stairs, turning the banister on a dime and dashing for the front door, wrenching it open on his Grandpa poised to knock.

"Grandpa!"

"Buddy!"

I scramble out into the hall to watch my dad hoist River up into his arms and spin him around, both of them laughing. The moment River's feet touch the ground again, I hurl myself into my dad's arms without making the conscious decision to do so. He chuckles in my ear and squeezes me tighter around the waist, even leans back a bit so my feet dangle off the ground for a few seconds.

"I'm so happy to see you," I breathe into his shoulder.

He sets me down and moves his hands to my shoulders. "I'm so proud of you, kiddo, and I love you so much."

"I love you, too, dad."

One more long hug and then the two of us start lugging boxes of equipment parts and mats out of the bed of the pickup and into the house. I'm sliding a mat down from the back when I realize that a couple of River's incline mats and his pommel horse pod didn't seem to make the trip. When I ask my dad about it, he grins and gets a sly look in his eyes.

"I didn't have quite enough room in here for all of it," he begins, helping me hoist the large, padded mat for River's kip bar down from the truck. "And a certain someone said he had some business to take care of up in Cambridge, anyway, and said he wouldn't mind hauling them here for me."

I raise an eyebrow at him, simultaneously keeping an eye on River, who's bouncing a little too close to the street for my comfort. Our neighborhood isn't exactly busy, but our house is right after a bend and there wouldn't be much time for a car to stop if River were in the road.

"He? He who?"

"Should be here any minute, he wasn't far behind me," my father says, pulling down a canvas bag that holds River's rings and straps. Just as I turn to help him get the kip mat and bag inside, a blue Mitsubishi Outlander pulls to a delicate stop along the curb.

I know this car.

This is the car that drove River and I away from Henry and away from our apartment.

And that means that the person driving it is the one that kept us safe until I could move us out here.

The driver side door opens and out steps my very best friend.

"Wesley!" The scream tears my throat a little but the joy of seeing him makes it unnoticeable. I'm in his arms before I even think about getting there, and he laughs and grabs me up and we spin around, overbalance, and fall into the grass of my front yard. He lets out an 'Oof', then hooks his arm around my neck in a playful headlock. We wrestle for a bit until River decides he wants in, and with a cry of 'Uncle Wes!' he takes a running start and jumps atop us.

"Whoa, little man, have you gotten bigger?" Wes asks, struggling to sit up with a four-and-a-half year-old hanging off his shoulder.

River frowns. "It's been two weeks since you've seen me, Uncle Wes, I highly doubt I've grown."

Wes turns to me with a disbelieving look. "He 'highly doubts' it, does he? What are you having him _read_, Kurt, he speaks better than I do!"

I smirk and stand, offering him a hand up and off the grass which he takes, dragging River up with him.

"And that should say something about you, Wes," I remark, which causes him to pout at me.

"Come on, boys, let's get the rest of this inside," Burt calls from the driveway where he's man-handling a large box with parts of River's kip bar in it. Wes runs over to help him, tossing his keys at me as he goes, so River and I open up the back of his car to start unloading it. We pull out the two large incline mats and the pommel pod, but there's a box at the back that I'm not sure about. So we drag the mats up the yard and deposit them on the porch before I ask Wes about the box.

"Oh, yeah," he says, turning to walk back to his car, motioning for me to follow. "Your dad said he found some stuff packed away in your old closet and thought you might like to go through it with River."

I roll my eyes. "Just what we need- another box in the house."

"You're still not unpacked?" he asks, hopping up into the boot of his car to grab the box and push it out to me.

"Not as much as I'd like to be," I admit, heaving the box up and moving aside to let Wes climb out, close the door, and lock his car. "But now that River's on a training schedule and all the paperwork for the move and divorce is done, I can concentrate on getting the house to rights."

We hop up into the house just as my dad comes back out to grab the last of the mats. I set the box down on the coffee table and it sits there for a time while we set up all the equipment in the basement. The whole floor gets covered in the thinner mats, then Wes and I drag the low beam to one wall and have River stand on it with his arms out so we can put it a safe distance from the wall. His kip bar goes under the windows, and I drill a hook in the wall next to it to hang his rings, straps, and hand wraps from. Incline mats get piled in an empty corner and the pommel horse pod stands in the remaining empty space. On the wall behind the pommel trainer my dad and I install the stall bar that I bought for River a few weeks before we moved.

It's nearly eight by now so I lead everyone upstairs to order a couple of pizzas for dinner. I hang up the phone and come out from the kitchen to see Wes kneeling next to the coffee table and opening the new box, my dad on the couch behind him with River on his lap.

"What's in here?" I ask my father, crouching down opposite Wes and peering in.

"Some stuff from when you were about River's age," he explains. "I know how much the both of you like Alice in Wonderland, so I thought you'd appreciate having-"

"My Alice tea set!" I crow, holding up one of the dainty China cups, this one painted with the Cheshire cat.

River's off his Grandpa's lap like a shot, crowding around me to see all the different cups as I pull them out. When I find the one with the Mad Hatter on it, he carefully picks it up and holds it close to his chest. I haven't figured out if River's affinity for the Hatter stems from my own, or if he enjoys the character for his own reasons. Either way, I adore having this in common with my son. I pull out the teapot, itself, painted over with Alice all around, and set it in the middle of the cups. There are six cups in all- White Hare, Cheshire Cat, March Hare, Mad Hatter, Tweedles Dee and Dum, and the Caterpillar- a sugar bowl with the Queen of Hearts, and a small milk pitcher with the Knave of Hearts.

"Can we have a tea party, dad?" River asks, gently setting down the Hatter cup next to the teapot.

"Absolutely," I enthuse. "Tomorrow, okay?"

He nods, but he's still looking at the cups. I chuckle and start to dig through the box again. "How long are you two in town for?" I ask, lifting out a stack of photographs and flipping quickly through them. I'll organize them into an album some other time.

"I'm here as long as you want me," Burt states, "but Wes here says he's got some business up in Cambridge."

"A friend of mine," he explains at my look, "from high school. He graduated the year before you transferred so you've never met him, but he was a good friend of mine for a while. We lost touch in college, started talking again a couple years ago, and now that you're nearby I have the perfect excuse to go and surprise him."

"Ah, I see how it is, Wes," I jibe at him, pretending to be offended but he just shoves my shoulder playfully. "Need to crash here for the night? I can bunk with River so dad can have my room and you the guest room."

"That would be awesome, thanks!" He leans over to give me a hug, causing River to shriek when he nudges some of the Wonderland cups together, causing them to clank.

"Sorry buddy," he says as he sits back just as the doorbell rings.

"Pizza!" River exults, clapping his hands.

I start to stand to go answer the door, but my dad beats me to it, paying the delivery guy before I even make it to the hall.

"You didn't have to do that, Dad," I reprimand him and take the boxes from him into the kitchen.

"Nonsense, Kurt, it's the least I can do," he rebuffs, opening several cabinets at once to find plates. "You're letting me stay in your home."

"You're my dad, you don't owe me anything," I counter, then call Wes and River in for food. "If anything, I owe you for raising me for eighteen years."

He laughs, then, and sets about getting drinks for everyone. River turns his nose up at the glass of milk Burt slides over to him, so he trades it out for water.

"Kid doesn't like milk, either," he comments, grabbing out two slices from the pepperoni box.

I shake my head. "Nope. I guess he got that from me." I pull out a large slice of plain cheese pizza and set it down on River's plate, then go back in for my own.

Dinner passes in a whirlwind of conversation and ends when River falls asleep against me. I look at the clock and read that it's nearly ten, and with the day he's had I'm actually surprised he lasted this long. Burt and Wes take over clean up so that I can escort River upstairs. I wake him up enough to get him to brush his teeth and change into pajamas, then tuck him in with a kiss and promise to be back in a little bit.

"You're going to sleep in here?" he asks, watches me turn on his night light and then flick the switch on the overhead lamps.

"Just for tonight, buddy," I remind him, and he pouts. "Go to sleep, River."

"Good night, daddy," he mumbles, nearly out again.

"Good night, sweetheart," I whisper against his forehead before I give it another peck.

* * *

I go downstairs to find Wes and Burt in the living room, the open box of my childhood between them on the couch.

"Hey, Kurt," Wes waves me over when he spots me in the door. "Did you make this?"

He holds up a worn purple top hat, decorated around the base and with the trademark receipt, "In This Style 10/6", stuck in the band.

I grin and let him stick it on my head. "Yeah, mom made this with me when I was seven. River's going to flip when he sees it."

"Well, you know what he's going to be for Halloween," Burt says and Wes laughs.

"Did you guys make any more of the outfit?" he asks, rifling through the box curiously, but there's just some of my old books at the bottom.

"No, she got sick before we could do any more," I say and carefully remove the hat to place it next to the tea cups.

Burt clears his throat. "I'm sure River would love to make the costume with you like you made that hat with Elizabeth."

I nod. "That was a fun weekend. We had a tea party after and she let me wear the hat and we only used lines from the book to talk. River would be ecstatic."

"Does he have training tomorrow?" Wes asks, folding the box closed again and setting it on the floor. "I'm leaving before lunch."

"Yeah, seven-thirty until one. He won't like not getting to say goodbye to you."

Wes smiles. "I'll catch him in the morning."

"You're going to wake up at six thirty?" I laugh.

His smile softens. "For River? Anything." He stands to give me a hug and then declares it his bedtime. Burt and I follow his lead up the stairs, and when Wes disappears into the guest room with a soft 'Good night', I stop my dad on the landing and loop my arms around him.

"Thanks for coming, dad," I tell him sincerely.

"Anything for my boys," he whispers back, then opens the door to my room.

I quickly show him where the towels are in the bathroom and remind him not to touch my clothes, then dig out some pajamas from a still-unpacked box, grab my toothbrush from my sink, and head down the hall. I change and brush my teeth in the hall bathroom which, for all intents and purposes, is really just 'River's Bathroom'. I leave my clothes folded on the counter, take a few sips of water, then sneak across the dark hall for River's room.

His night light makes it easy to see, but it's not so bright as to be a nuisance when trying to sleep. I gently roll River over to one side of his bed, climb in beside him, and then tug him into my arms. He curls right up, his small face presses into my neck comfortably, and his hands grab onto my shirt in loose fists. I reach over him and make sure his alarm is set for six. He can sleep another twenty minutes after that, but I need the time for a hot shower to help me wake up.

With a contented sigh I snuggle down into River's twin bed and pull the blankets up around us. It's a squeeze, definitely; usually when River bunks with me it's in my King-size bed where he can spread out to his little heart's content. But the closeness is cozy, and soon enough I drift off to the sound of his gentle breathing.


	3. You Want a Better Story

I slap the alarm quiet before it can wake River up fully, run my fingers through his loose curls until he settles again, then quietly slip out of the twin bed and into the hall. I can hear my dad already up and in the kitchen downstairs, the first whiffs of coffee making it up to the landing, and with a broad inhale I nip into my room to shower and dress.

On my way back to get River up, I pop into the guest room to find Wes snoring against a pillow. I flick the bedside lamp on and snap my fingers next to his ear until he startles up with a snorting groan.

"Dude, what the hell?" he grumbles, eyes still closed and about to fall back against the pillows.

I grab his arm to keep him upright. "Oh, no, mister. You promised River a goodbye this morning. Up you get."

He mutters mutinously under his breath at me, still staunchly refusing to open his eyes, but he shuffles to the edge of the bed and feels around on the floor with his toes for his slippers. I kick them towards his feet and pat his knee before heading back into my son's room. It's six-fifteen now, I only need him awake enough to wash his face, brush his teeth and eat some breakfast, so I rouse him with gentle hands, quickly exchanging his night clothes for track pants and a t-shirt, and send him off to the bathroom.

Downstairs, dad has commandeered one side of the table with his newspaper, toast and coffee, well into the sports pages and already grumbling about one thing or another. Wes sits opposite him, and I honestly hadn't quite expected him to beat me down, hunched bodily over his own coffee poured into the largest mug I own. He perks up marginally when the first slices of French toast hit the griddle, and then more when I nudge him a full plate and the bottle of syrup from the pantry. Little feet hit the stairs just in time- I can hear River tossing his kit bag just inside the front door before he stumbles into the kitchen and straight over to me.

I smile and pick him up- I never have gotten over the feeling of holding my own son, I hope I never do- and perch him on my hip as I carry the last plate of toast to the table. He settles on my lap and we share the plate, playfully nudging at each other's forks in between large bites and sips of orange juice. Six-thirty-five, and River goes up to brush his teeth again while I fix him his water bottles and make sure he has everything he'll need in his bag. Dad has migrated to the living room couch after throwing open the curtains. The sun is just about up, and it looks to be a clear day. Wes leans against a wall in the entry, catches River when he comes back down and holds him tight. I'd lost count how many times I owe Wes for taking River in when Henry went on a bender, for giving us both a place to crash when things got too much. Wes adores River; he and my father both would move mountains and then some for that little boy.

They make me feel lucky, in spite of Henry.

"Come on, kid, we've got to get going," I say gently, patting River on the back where he's curled up in Wes' arms.

He pokes his head up and wraps his arms around his Uncle's neck. "Bye, Uncle Wes," he whispers.

"Goodbye, little man," Wes returns, gives him one last squeeze and then sets him down. River scoops up his bag and trots outside to wait by the car.

I haven't even begun to turn to him when I feel my best friend pull me by the arm into his chest. He cups the back of my head with one hand and holds it against his shoulder, the other rubbing slow circles across my back.

"You've done good, Little Lion," he says softly, "you've done good."

I laugh, and maybe it's a little watery, but he doesn't seem to mind. We just hug a little tighter for a minute before he pulls away, gives me a bit of a push towards the door.

"I'll come back before school starts," he promises. "Keep in touch, yeah?"

"Always," I tell him, peck him on the cheek, then leave.

* * *

River dozes during the car ride to the complex, but perks considerably when we round into the lot. I have only just pulled into a space, one hand on the lever to jam it into park, when a shiny silver car pulls into the space next to us. I can't help the little grin on my face as I turn off the car and unbuckle, exiting out into the parking lot just as Blaine slams his driver's side door shut again.

"Good morning!" he beams over the top of his car, reaching for the back door handle and letting Jude scramble out.

"Morning," I call back, quickly helping River out of his booster seat so he can dash over to Jude. They grab hands and wait patiently while I dig out River's bag and my own, sling both over one shoulder, and close and lock the car.

"Please stay close," Blaine reminds Jude with one-handed signs that the little boy nods at, gently tugging back on River's hand when he tries to walk faster. River exaggeratedly checks for cars at the cross to the building, moving forward after turning to give me a raised eyebrow, at which Blaine laughs.

"He's a little spitfire, isn't he?" he asks with an easy grin, watches the two small boys wrestle one of the enormous glass doors open.

"My father claims it's karma," I tell him, nodding in thanks when he holds the door open for me. "I may not have been the most…_tolerable _kid."

Blaine snorts, leads the way to our usual spots on the inner end of the second-tier bench, and sits down, giving polite waves in greeting to the handful of other parents that stick around for practices. River bounds over to me to grab his kit bag, then makes sure to snag Jude's hand once he's given his hearing aid to his father and together they dash to the back locker room doors to stow away their things.

"Were you as rambunctious as River?" he asks, shifting around to get comfortable.

"I don't think 'rambunctious' so much as 'particular'," I correct after pondering on it a moment. "I liked things a certain way, and I definitely wasn't shy about it."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Blaine offers with a cheeky smile. "Though you seem to have grown out of it quite nicely."

"Yes, well, having a kid sort of requires…flexibility," I say with a shrug. "No matter what you had planned, they always seem to find ways around them."

Blaine nods sympathetically, pulling out his ever-present laptop and powering it on. He also tugs out a leather-bound book, pages slightly yellowed with age, and thumbs through it a bit as he waits for his computer to load.

"Can I ask what you're reading?" I inquire, already tilting my head to get a look at the title. He tips the book a bit to show the cover: _Clinical Neurology._

"You're a doctor?" I ask, a little ashamed at how surprised I sound. Thankfully, he just chuckles a bit and nods.

"I am," he confirms, pauses to type in his computer's password. "I work at the Boston Children's Hospital, obviously," he gives the book a little wave, "in the Neurology department."

"Wow," I let out on a breath. "So are you a specialist or do you work with a lot of different things?"

Blaine takes a moment, pulls up a Word Document on his laptop. "I do treat a range of disorders, but mostly because the kids develop disorders comorbid with their syndromes. My door says I specialize in Epileptic Disorders, but the kids I see have a pretty good range of other illnesses."

"I see," I mumble, and the conversation peters out. The sounds of page turning and frenetic typing begin to lull me into a fuzzy half-awake state while I watch the kids tumble around. I send River a lazy little finger-wave when he catches my eye and smiles.

With a quick shake of my head to clear it a bit, I dig into my own bag and unearth a simple spiral-bound notebook and a ballpoint pen. It's already half- full with notes and some paragraphs of actual writing scattered about, so I turn to the next clean page and start working on a comprehensive outline, using colored sticky notes to mark certain references at the front of the notebook that are too long or involved to bother copying out again in the outline. The two of us work in near silence for a while, only breaking it when I decide to make a coffee run and ask Blaine if he would like anything. I return with my mocha and his medium drip and that's that. He types, I write. I find myself really enjoying the relative peace; the pounding of feet and hands on vinyl mats and Cooper's occasional booming instructions provide enough background noise that the silence between us isn't unsettling, but it's not enough to be distracting either. Just being near someone, each of us doing our own thing and yet enjoying each other's company, is something I haven't experienced since Dalton's late-night study jams with Wes in our dorm room.

I look up at the sound of a small commotion to see Cooper standing over River on the floor under the single bar, gently holding my son's arm in his large grip. I'm already half out of my seat when Cooper looks up and waves me over. River looks over as well, and I thankfully notice that he isn't crying or looking particularly distressed at all. I set my notebook and pen down on the bench and delicately but quickly pick my way through equipment and kids to get to my son.

"What happened, Champ?" I ask, kneeling down beside him and ruffling his hair with one hand.

Cooper smiles and moves back a bit so I can cradle River's wrist in my hand. "He grabbed the bar wrong, took a little spill."

"Does it hurt?" I ask River, and he shakes his head.

"Not too bad," he says, but when he tries to roll his wrist he winces a little and frowns. I look up at Cooper.

"It's not sprained or anything, just a little tweaked," he assures me. "If it's alright with you, I think he can stay for the rest of practice."

River nudges me with his good arm and gives me a hopeful look.

"You don't want to leave, do you?" I sigh. He shakes his head. "Fine. Go get your Tiger Paw."

He scrambles up off the floor, presses a wet, messy kiss to my cheek, then dashes off to the lockers.

"Don't worry, I'll have him watch for technique the rest of class," Cooper states, offering me a hand up. "If I let him, he'd do nothing but bar work all day, but he's not hitting some of the forms properly."

I chuckle at that. Bars have always been my favorite, as well. "He doesn't mind learning form, he just gets bored."

The coach chuckles and leads me back over to the stands. "Well, form is essential to good routines. He'll just have to be patient."

We reach the stands as River comes back out and jogs over to us, wrist brace in hand. I take a quick seat and haul him onto my lap, easing the brace onto his tender wrist and strapping it down. Finished, I give him a solid squeeze around the middle and send him back out with Cooper, turning to take my place beside Blaine once more. When I get there, Blaine's sitting hunched to his side, eyes squinting as he peers down at something on the bench. I follow his gaze to my still-open notebook and smirk.

"What if I told you that book is intensely private?" I say, coming up quietly behind him.

He jumps and looks a little sheepish, a faint blush coming up across his cheeks. "I would say 'I'm sorry, yet hopelessly intrigued,'?"

With a laugh I reclaim my spot on the bench, place my pad in my lap and twirl the pen between my fingers.

"It's alright," I assure him, and he looks relieved. "Most of this probably won't make it into the printed version, anyway."

His eyes widen a tad. "You're a writer?"

I nod, perhaps a little proudly. "My last book has been on the New York Times Bestsellers List for a few weeks now."

Immediately his face falls into an embarrassed grimace. "Would I sound like a total douche if I said I'd never heard of you until I met you?"

His earnest face and vaguely pleading tone make me laugh, a loud sort of huff that bursts out before I can prevent it.

I shake my head. "No, Blaine, it wouldn't. I'm sure plenty of people haven't heard of me."

"Still," he grumbles, "I feel like I should at least have caught whispers of you. What genre are you in?"

"Historical fiction."

"See!" he exclaims, "I love historical fiction, how haven't I heard of you?"

I sigh, but smile with fondness. "Blaine, really, it's hardly a big deal. It's not even a little deal. I'm not offended or anything if that's what you're upset about."

He shakes his head quickly, curls bouncing, "No, it's not that, it just means I've been working a lot more than I thought I've been, if I haven't had time to start a new book in three weeks. I love to read, I feel like I'm missing out, now."

"Well, consider this me shamelessly promoting my work to you, for whenever you get the chance to read again," I reply with a small, shy smile.

His laugh comes quick and clear. "I will absolutely look you up."

"Thank you," I preen, and with a last exchange of smiles, we each turn to our own materials, working steadily through the hours until the buzzer goes and suddenly we're fathers again, picking up our kids and strapping them into booster seats, waving goodbye in a parking lot. As we pull out of the lot behind the Anderson Rolls Royce, I wonder about the last time I felt like 'Just Kurt' with anyone, and not 'KurtAndHenry' or 'KurtAndRiverAndHenry'. '_A very long time_' is the answer, I decide, turning onto the highway to head home.

* * *

Three weeks later, and River's training starts picking up. It's July now, and at the end of the month he and his gym-mates will be attending an invitational hosted by a gym in Boston. There will be prizes, but the meet will focus more on having fun and getting the children ready for competition season to start in late October. River can hardly contain his excitement, and his only complaint is that his grandfather won't be able to come along to sheer him on.

My father had driven back home a week after Wes left, after sneaking in piles of groceries while River and I were at the gym and leaving a check on our dining room table to be used to 'go out and have some fun,' with the added stipulation that this 'fun' be entirely unrelated to gymnastics. River and I had spent the next day on the computer looking for something to do that wasn't too far, or too expensive, and we settled on the Boston Children's Museum, almost entirely because River wanted to try the climbing tower. I'd decided we would go the day after the invitational- a celebration should he win, a consolation should he not. In a fit of whimsy, I order two extra tickets and hope that a certain pair of Andersons are free that day.

A routine has sprung up between us and the Andersons, centered on our boys' training. Every weekday, from 7:30 in the morning until 1:00 in the afternoon, Blaine and I sit together on the bleachers and talk- comparing child-rearing horror stories, occupational woes, and sometimes even touching on our shared Dalton attendance. Sometimes the children spend their two thirty-minute breaks with us on the bleachers, sometimes they stay with the other kids, but the four of us always go out for lunch every Tuesday and Thursday after practice. Today's a Thursday, two weeks before the invitational, and we've just left the diner after lunch, Jude and River slurping happily at a pair of vanilla ice-cream cones as they walk a few steps ahead of us to our cars.

Just as Blaine and I reach out to unlock our vehicles, Blaine's phone rings loudly from his pocket. He digs it out and answers while I make sure River finishes his ice-cream before getting in the car- I love the kid, but he's not the most delicate eater, and I don't feel like spending the afternoon working stains out of my car interior.

"Shit!" Blaine exclaims, to a gasp from River. He grimaces in apology, but I shrug- he's heard worse, what with an alcoholic for a father, and thankfully has never once repeated the terms.

"I'll be right there, thirty minutes, tops," Blaine says, quickly ending the call but remaining on his phone, tapping frantically at the screen as I finally get River strapped into his seat, leaving the door open for a moment.

"Something wrong?" I ask over the top of his car. Jude is standing with his fist curled into the bottom of Blaine's t-shirt, ice-cream gone, and looking worriedly up at his father who hasn't stopped typing on his phone.

Blaine nods, frowning. "Emergency at work. I need to be there as soon as possible, but Cooper can't watch Jude today, and the neighbor that sometimes sits for me is out of town."

I give him a look to suggest he may be being a little dense, but he just frowns harder and shrugs at me, still going at his phone.

"And David isn't answering my texts or my calls, my parents still live in Ohio, so it's not like I can ask _them_, and-" he stops talking when I move over to him and gently pry the device from his hands. His fingers keep twitching for a moment, typing away at air, before he sighs in frustration at me.

"I don't have time for this, Kurt, I need to find someone to watch Jude!"

"And what am I, chopped liver?" I respond, gesturing to myself and to River, who waves from his booster seat in confusion, Toy Story playing softly on his in-car television.

I hand Blaine back his phone as his mouth gapes a little, but then he's all hands and voice, trying to unhook Jude's booster seat, explain to him what's happening, and thank me profusely all at the same time. With a firm hand I push him over to Jude and take over the booster seat, deftly taking it out and putting it my own car's backseat next to River, who looks positively delighted now.

"Is Jude coming over?" he claps his hands in excitement. "Can we play? Can he see my room? Can we have a tea party?"

I nod absently while strapping down the seat, moving aside to let Blaine hoist Jude into the car and buckle him up.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he signs to Jude, but he turns his head to speak to me, as well.

"Don't rush," I tell him, "we'll take good care of him."

He sighs and run both hands through his hair before looking to Jude once more. He has a silent and quick conversation with his son and I manage to pick out the words 'good' and 'phone' and 'need'. Both Andersons have been teaching my son and me basic Sign at our lunches out, but it's much harder to keep up with actual conversation than with the slow, deliberate movements they use when demonstrating.

With a kiss to his son's forehead, Blaine straightens up and asks for my phone. He types in his name and number, then dials his own phone before handing it back.

"Jude has an emergency cell in his bag that has my number programmed, but just in case…" he explains.

"No worries, Papa Anderson, I'm sure Jude will be fine," I reassure him, gesturing to the inside of the car where River has put subtitles on the movie and Jude sits enthralled.

"No, I'm sure he'll be fine, I just…worry," Blaine says, ruffling Jude's curls and giving him one last kiss, which Jude returns a little distractedly, and then Blaine's looking at me again. He leans in quickly, gives me a brief hug around the neck and lets go with a kiss to my cheek.

"Thank you so much for this, Kurt, I owe you one. Text me your address, I'll come pick him up when I'm done," he breathes, and then he's gone, shiny silver car speeding as quickly as is legal away. With a shaky sigh I close up the back of the car and start the ride home.

* * *

River wastes no time dragging Jude upstairs and down, talking a mile a minute and using signs where he can, but for the most part Jude maintains a bemused expression, occasionally looking to me for guidance. After River's third lap of his home gym, which Jude had clapped excitedly at and hopped around eagerly, I herd the boys upstairs to the den, grabbing River's large drawing pad and a box of crayons as I go.

With the boys settled down for some quiet time, I take their kit bags into the laundry room and put their training clothes into the washing machine with a few of River's sweaty gym towels. Then I take Jude's bag back out to him, in case he needs to contact his father. He raises an eyebrow when he sees his clothes are missing, so I try to sign to him that I've put them in the wash, but I blank on the words and, instead, grab a purple crayon and scribble out 'They're in the laundry' on the drawing pad next to River's doodle of the Cheshire Cat. Jude nods and smiles, signs 'thank you', and returns to his coloring. I remind River to come get me if they need anything, and head into the dining room with my laptop to do a little work.

Blaine texts two hours later. One of his patients took an inexplicable turn for the worse around noon that day, and he doesn't know how long he's going to be at the hospital running tests. I tell him it's fine, that if Jude's still here by dinner we'll feed him, no worries, 'just make sure you take care of yourself too,' to which he replies, 'he's allergic to peanuts, don't forget, and I'll try' and ends it with a smiley face. Smiling myself, I take the boys' things out of the dryer and separate them, folding them neatly and re-packing Jude's warm-ups into his kit bag before heading back to my laptop.

By five o'clock I've run out of writing steam and start messing around on Google, pulling up several video dictionaries on American Sign Language that look well-done and extensive and settle in to learn some new words and phrases. I get through colors, animals, and a series of general-conversation phrases before River comes in towing Jude by the hand and stating that he's hungry and it's time for dinner. With a start I glance at the time on my computer and notice I'd been practicing for nearly two hours.

Chicken nuggets with salad and macaroni and cheese cooks up quick enough for the boys, who sit munching happily at the table not fifteen minutes later. I nibble on some of the chicken myself and work through a bowl of salad, but leave the cheesy, gooey mess to the kids and think longingly back to a time when my metabolism worked as ferociously as theirs. After dinner I field more texts and one call from Blaine who, in a moment of supreme density, asks me to put his son on the phone. I hear a dull thud through the speaker almost immediately after the words leave his mouth, and assume he now sports a red mark on his forehead from its collision with the wood of his desk.

The boys and I pile onto the couch as River has demanded that we watch Alice in Wonderland and have a tea party at the same time. I make a pot of peppermint tea, both mine and River's favorite, and manage to ask Jude, entirely in sign, what his favorite cookies are. He grins and points to the package of Oreos on the counter, licking his lips as I line a small plate with a paper doily and daintily place several cookies around it. Soon enough the tea tray is on the coffee table and Jude and River sip out of my old Alice in Wonderland tea cups- River has the Mad Hatter one, of course- while the film plays on the television. Halfway through, while Jude is painstakingly breaking apart yet another Oreo cookie, Blaine shoots me a text to say that he's just about done. I make sure he has the correct address, then settle in to wait. At 8:30 p.m. precisely, the doorbell rings.

"Hey," Blaine breathes, leaning forward from his perch on the doorstep and trying to peer around me into the house.

I smirk at him and deliberately move to block his view. He pouts at me. I roll my eyes and step aside.

"They're in the living room," I tell him, and watch fondly as he scrambles inside, kicking off his shoes when he notices his son's sneakers by the door and my own socked feet.

I lead him into the living room and tap Jude gently on the shoulder. He looks around and brightens instantly when he sees his dad, squealing in delight and running straight into Blaine's arms. Blaine scoops him up and presses kiss after kiss into Jude's cheek, grinning like a fool when his son makes a face and tries to wipe them off.

"Thank you so much for looking after him," Blaine whispers, cradling Jude's head against his shoulder and bouncing him just a little in his arms.

"It was no trouble," I laugh, "he and River had a blast."

Blaine looks over to the remnants of the tea party and to where River continues to watch his movie.

"Big Alice fan?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I nod. "I think it's genetic."

Blaine chuckles, quickly squatting down to grab up Jude's kit bag from against the couch. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. That tea set was mine when I was young," I inform him, and glance affectionately at my son, who still cradles the empty Mad Hatter cup in his small hands. "River, are you going to come say goodbye to Jude?"

With a start he fumbles for the remote and pauses the movie, dashing over to us in the hall. Blaine sets Jude down, and the boy is immediately drawn into a bear hug by River. When they part, River raises his hand to wave goodbye, and Jude does the same. Blaine helps Jude into his shoes once more, then hands him the kit bag. River heads back into the living room while I follow Blaine and Jude out into the driveway to help put Jude's booster seat back in Blaine's car.

"Thanks again," he says once we've finished and Jude is clambering in. "If you ever need someone to watch River…"

"You're first on my list, Anderson," I smirk at him. "Besides, it's not like I really know anyone else here yet."

We walk around to the driver's side and he opens the door. "When competition season starts up, the gym parents like to have monthly get-togethers to keep in good spirits; I'm sure you'll make friends there."

I shrug, suddenly a little shy. "I've never been the best at making friends," I admit.

He smiles softly at me, reaches out to squeeze my arm. "You'll be fine," he says confidently. "You've gotten me haven't you?"

With a laugh, I nod. "Yeah, I suppose I have."

He squeezes my arm again, a firm show of friendly support, climbs into his car and drives away.

With a small, quiet sigh I shut the front door firmly and switch the deadbolt over. I hadn't lied when I told Blaine I had trouble making friends. It took near-constant pestering on Wes' part for nearly two months before I plucked up the courage to attend a glee party with him and the other Warblers, and after that it was a case-by-case affair. I befriended them slowly, one-by-one and with varying degrees of success. Wes was, by far, the one I felt closest to, and we decided to room together our junior year. By the end of that year, neither of us had any secrets from the other, and often wandered in and out of each other's homes during breaks as if we were family.

The fact that I feel so comfortable with Blaine frightens me on some levels. Relationships have always been a slow-build process for me; getting to know someone thoroughly before I consider them a friend or an acquaintance is the norm, and the process is even lengthier for romantic relationships. Henry was, by all accounts, my first and only boyfriend. I didn't like to date. Meeting someone with the intent to seek out romantic attraction never felt right to me, so I never did. Instead I met Henry as a roommate my first year of college. We shared a three-room on-campus apartment with two other guys, brothers, who shared the largest room and left the singles for me and Henry. It took some time for me to be comfortable sharing space with so many people, but it happened, and we became friends. A year and a half later, Henry and I started dating.

The fall had been fast- I'd expected it to be. We'd lived together through college, got our own place afterwards, and our second year out of school, we'd decided to start our family. Henry insisted on surrogacy, and that I be the donor. Ten months later River came home, and the next year, Henry started drinking. I'd been working for a couple of magazines at the time, publishing the odd column here and there while working on my second book, and Henry worked at a firm as a Consulting Software Engineer, designing sophisticated computer networks for large organizations. It's what he went to school for, he'd always been good with computers, but the dry, repetitive work started getting to him after River's thirteenth month. He'd come home later, skip the wine at dinner and go for the whiskey, and, at least three times a week, have two or three nightcaps before falling into bed. I'd started taking River to the gym with me then, trying to pick the days that seemed worse than others so that River didn't have to be there for Henry's drinking.

We lasted three years like that. Henry would go on a bender, lash out at me and rage through the house, smashing things, sometimes, and other times he would try and force me into bed with him. He'd always apologize by buying us things- River's home gym had been funded entirely by Henry's binge drinking. I'd spent years building up a love for this man, I foolishly believed that, with a little tenderness and understanding, I'd be able to get my partner back.

River had just turned four when smashing plates just didn't cut it for Henry anymore.

I'd grabbed up my kid and packed us both a hasty bag that night, ignoring Henry's simpering and whining that I was overreacting, that it wasn't that hard a hit. By the time I got River and myself to Wes' apartment, the entire left side of my face sported an impressive bruise, the eye swollen to a slit.

We camped out in Wes' place for a few weeks until he and I could go back to the apartment I'd shared with Henry and pack up all my stuff. It was a quick job- my father came to help, as did one of the downstairs neighbors who'd heard the commotion and commended me for getting the hell out of there. River and I moved back into my father's house and I started looking for a new place far enough away from Henry.

If taking the time to know someone, to fall in love with them slowly and suredly doesn't work out, then how in the world can falling quickly?

Another sigh, and I head back into the living room. I take a moment to watch River's little face brighten with delight at his movie, Mad Hatter tea cup still held loosely in his fingers, eyes alight as the film reaches its end. Gently I sit next to him, tidy up the coffee table by placing plates and napkins and cups back onto the tray to take into the kitchen, but decide to wait for the movie to finish before I try to pry that tea cup out of my son's hands.

"River?" I ask slowly, barely aware that I've begun to speak at all, and mildly startled when I hear my own voice.

"Yeah?" he says distractedly, and I wait a moment for the final scene to close before continuing. When River sits back with a sigh, I urge him to look at me.

"Are you happy, River?" I inquire, and he gives me an odd little look, one eyebrow up and eyes squinted, a tiny smile at his mouth.

"Of course, Daddy," he states with a shrug, still smiling but decidedly less confused. I assume he thinks I'm just being a crazy adult. Perhaps I am. "Why?" I hold out my hand for his cup and he gives it over, letting me settle it on the tray with the others.

I shake my head just a little to clear it and shrug back at him. "No reason, buddy," I tell him. "Just making sure."

He frowns, then. "Is this about Dad? Because he wasn't happy?"

The credits still roll down the television screen as I nod. "Kind of, yeah. Do you miss him at all?"

River's frown deepens, little creases appearing in his forehead. I open my arms and he crawls over onto my lap, snuggling into my chest contentedly.

"If I say 'no', does that make me bad?" he asks quietly, immediately popping a thumb into his mouth and suckling anxiously.

With a gentle hand I remove the appendage from his mouth and capture his attention. "No, River, it doesn't. You're allowed to feel whatever it is you're feeling. If you don't miss him, that's okay."

He pauses a moment, then asks, "Do _you _miss him?"

Another sigh from me, and River's thumb returns to his mouth, his temple resting against my collar bone. I run a hand through his soft hair.

"I think I miss who he used to be the most," I finally say, watching the credits come to an end and the DVD menu start up. I reach over for the remote and turn the set off, tossing the gadget back onto the couch cushion afterwards. "He wasn't always like that. He used to be very sweet."

River shifts, speaks around his thumb, "What happened?"

My shrug jostles him a little bit. "He stopped being happy. He stopped being happy with his job, and with me, and with _us_. I think he just started to want different things."

The boy goes still, grey-blue eyes somber and focused on the material of my shirt as he shifts his thumb just outside of his mouth. "He didn't want _us _anymore."

The words are a statement hung heavy in the air. My four-and-a-half-year-old son has accepted that his own father decided not to be a parent anymore. It makes my eyes sting.

"No, baby," I agree, "I don't think he did."

There's a pause while I swallow down the lump in my throat and try keep my breaths even. River doesn't seem to notice, just keeps sucking his thumb and using his other hand to fiddle with the hem of my shirt.

"Hey," I say softly, nudging him a little. "Look at me, please?"

He does, raises his eyes to my face and lets both of his hands fall to his lap.

"You know that _I _want you, right?" I ask, watching his little face, making sure he understands. "You know that I will _always _want you, right?"

River nods, sniffs, then nods again, curling thin arms around my neck and pressing his face into my neck. I grip him to me, tight and sure, and lift us both off the couch. He's reluctant to let go of me to change for bed, but eventually goes with the promise that he can sleep in the big bed with me tonight. As he brushes his teeth I strip down to boxers and a t-shirt, pull on a pair of worn sweat pants from my Dalton days, and plug my phone in to charge on the nightstand. It lights up with a new text almost immediately, and I smile at the name on the display.

_Just got home and Jude is going a mile a minute about his day. River's his first friend, he says,and apparently your laundry detergent smells better than ours. Thanks again for taking him, Kurt. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Lunch is on me next week. xx–Blaine_

There's an idiot grin on my face, I'm sure, when River trots in, holding his nightlight in one hand and heading straight for the exposed outlet next to my dresser and snapping it in. Once it's on he slaps at the overhead light switch, standing on his tippy-toes to reach, and then skips over to the bed and clambers up. I smile at him as he wiggles under the covers, a small lump in the large bed, and set my phone down to crawl in next to him. He snuggles right up to me, nose pressed into my shoulder and little hands gripping my arm.

"Goodnight, Daddy," he whispers, eyes already drooping a bit. It's only just past nine, his regular bedtime, but he's not usually quite so exhausted.

"Goodnight, River," I breathe back, and watch for a few minutes as he falls asleep.

When he's out, his breathing slow and even, I reach over to the night stand and tug my phone, charger cord trailing from the side, to my chest, holding it up a bit so I can see the screen comfortably. Smiling once more at the text from Blaine, I hit reply and tap out a message.

_As I said, it was no problem. And our detergent is actually scent-less; I add fragrance oils myself. Tell Jude he has a good nose. You don't need to pay for lunch, Blaine, I was happy to help, and you know that. x-Kurt_

While waiting for his reply, I stroke at River's hair and watch, enchanted, as he sleeps. It's a wondrous thing sometimes, being a parent. My father always said that it was easy to be a good parent when he had such a good kid, and though I could present evidence that I wasn't always an awesome child, I can now fully appreciate his sentiment. River can be a handful. He can be picky and spiteful and handsy, but he is also incredibly sweet and compassionate for a young child, observant and joyful. He is everything I need in my world. I could survive everything but losing him.

My phone vibrates quietly on my chest where I'd set it down, and I expect it to be another text message, but the buzzing continues. Curiously I pick it up and note that Blaine has forgone texting and decided to call. Grinning, I hit 'answer' and whisper into the receiver.

"Hi."

He chuckles, a light burst of static from the other end of the line. "Hi," he replies. "Why are you whispering?"

I glance down at River. "The little monster is passed out next to me. He had a long day."

He hums in acknowledgement before speaking again. "So. I absolutely _do _need to buy you lunch next week because I haven't seen Jude this happy in a long while. He's vocalizing, Kurt. _Vocalizing_."

"And this is good?" I muse.

I can just picture him nodding furiously as he speaks. "This is amazing, Kurt! He hardly ever tries to speak, he usually hates it when I try to coach him at it, but he's spoken four times since we got home."

"That sounds incredible," I enthuse. "Can he say any words or are they just sounds?"

"They're just sounds right now," Blaine explains, "but this is so important for him, so whatever you did, _thank you_."

I grin and shake my head. "You'll have to thank River. All I did was make chicken nuggets and throw a tea party."

"Still, Kurt," he says, and the conversation lapses into a comfortable quiet as we listen to each other's soft breathing through the phone.

I gently clear my throat. "Listen, Blaine, I have a proposition for you. You and Jude."

He hums a little. "I'm listening."

"River and I are planning to hit up the Boston Children's Museum the day after the Invitational. I wondered if you two would like to come along?"

Blaine lets out a quick sigh, a content sound. "That sounds awesome. Meet at my house in the morning and we'll all go together?"

"That sounds perfect," I agree, nodding even though he can't see me. "I already have the tickets and stuff, so don't worry about that."

There's a pause on the other end, and then Blaine says, "You can't see it, but I'm pouting right now."

"Why are you pouting? I thought this was a good thing!"

He heaves a dramatic sigh this time. "Because _now _I'm going to have to ask you to dinner."

I'm quiet for a moment. "And that's a bad thing?"

His laugh is soft, delicate. "Never. How does next Friday sound?"

There's a lump in my throat somewhere, and no matter how hard I swallow, it won't go away. "Friday's good," I manage.

Both lines go silent momentarily, a thicker air than previously hanging over the conversation. I focus on River's gentle breathing next to me while I wait for Blaine to speak. Finally, I hear him take a deep, fortifying breath.

"I just…want to be clear," he says haltingly, like his thoughts are going every which way and he can't quite grab on to the ones he wants. "I want it to be understood that I'm asking you out. On a date. Friday."

Heart in my throat, and with little regard to my past dating protocols, I nod. "I understand, Blaine. I'd love to go out with you. On a date. Friday."

He laughs, a buoyant sound that lifts my heart higher still. "Great!" he says. "Wonderful. Awesome."

"Yes, Blaine, it is," I concur amusedly, fighting down the ridiculous, face-splitting grin I can feel tugging at my mouth.

He laughs again, and my stomach knots itself. "I'll see you tomorrow, yes?"

"Yes."

"Have a good night, Kurt."

"You, too, Blaine."

The call disconnects and I spend the rest of the night drifting between sleep and consciousness, alternately dreaming of hazel eyes and staring at the ceiling trying to burn the exact color of them into my memory.


	4. You Got Plans Tonight?

"No."

"Kurt, come on."

"I said no!"

"But Kurt-"

"Blaine Anderson, my child will _not _grow up, and that is final!"

I fold my arms across my chest in a huff, leveling a glare at the sniggering man across the table from me. He fiddles with his silverware, bites his lower lip in a muted grin and stares around the restaurant until he has himself under control again.

Blaine had come to pick me and River up promptly at seven, loading us both into his Rolls Royce. I'd spent the ride to his house running my hands across every bit of the smooth interior I could reach while Blaine and my son made fun of me, but I ignored them. The car is _gorgeous_. At Blaine's house, we quickly pop out to walk River inside where Cooper had waited with Jude, and after a distracted "Goodbye!" from my kid, Blaine had whisked me off.

Now he sits across from me, hands in his lap and shoulders hunched a bit in apology, in a truly stunning little Italian café. And, as if I don't already find him devastatingly attractive, he'd placed our orders with the mildly flirty waitress in perfect Italian. I'd spent the following moments studying my water glass deeply, watching drops of condensation run down to soak the tablecloth until I became sure I could speak again without squeaking.

"It happens to the best of us, Kurt," he says suddenly, softly, but still with humor. "Jude's going to grow up, too."

I scoff at that. "Yeah, right. With you as his father? No way."

He starts back, eyes wide with incredulity. "And what, pray tell, do you mean by _that_?"

With a raised eyebrow, I smirk and elaborate. "I saw the shelf, Blaine."

Blaine's face pales dramatically, eyebrows shooting up to join his hairline. He stutters out a squeaky, "I don't know what you're talking about."

My smirk deepens, laugh lines crinkling at the corners of my eyes, and I lean my elbows on the table to hook my fingers together beneath my chin. "_The shelf_, Blaine. The one in your living room, off to the side where I'm sure you thought I hadn't seen, sporting no fewer than three versions of each Harry Potter novel, all eight movies- which we _will _have a discussion about, mark my words- and _dozens _of figurines, wands, and other novelty items. _That _shelf."

Blaine's head has dropped, chin resting against his purple bow tie, and the tips of his ears grow redder still. Thankfully though, I can see the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement just before he looks up once more and raises both hands in surrender.

"You caught me," he accepts, "I confess. The first step to getting better is acknowledging you have a problem, yeah?"

I laugh and he smiles, lowering his hands to his lap once more. "I wouldn't call it a _problem_," I muse, fiddling with my knife and watching him take a sip of water. He has the most _alluring _neck.

"You wouldn't?" he asks, setting his glass down and nodding as if to say 'go on'.

With a quiet sigh, I admit, "I may have a similar shelf."

He rumbles out a chuckle, places an elbow on the table and cups his chin in his hand. "_Do _tell."

My cheeks flush, I can't help it. "I adore Disney movies," I explain. "I put my favorites on a separate shelf from our other films, along with all of the plushies I've acquired over the years."

"Plushies?" His smile just grows wider and then keeps going.

"Yes," I nod, leaning back in my chair and twisting my fingers together in my lap. "It started when I was young, when my mom bought me a little Simba stuffed toy after I'd watched the movie every day after school for a week. Then I got Mufasa and Scar, just before she died, and after that my dad just kept it up. Well, until high school, then I just bought them myself."

Blaine's quiet, and when I peek a glance at him he's watching me with a mostly unreadable, but undeniably infatuated, expression. "Who else do you have?" he asks, and it startles me that he's actually invested in this little quirk of mine. Henry never liked it, he thought it was childish and he made me keep them all in a drawer. Even River finds it a little odd, but mostly because I don't let him play with them, especially the older ones. I've bought him his own, his favorites, to snuggle with and drag through the dirt and to school as he sees fit.

I clear my throat a little, look around the room as if my courage is hanging out at the next table, waiting for me to ask it over.

"Well," I begin, and Blaine just settles more comfortably in his chair, never looking away from my face. I raise a hand and tick off fingers as I go. "After the lions I got Dumbo and Bambi, and a little Thumper to go with him. I have a Cheshire Cat, Tramp, but no Lady, a single Dalmation, Copper, but no Tod, and Oliver. Then there's Mushu, Meeko, and Winnie, Tigger, Eeyore and Piglet, Stitch, another Stitch, and a Llama."

"A Llama."

"Kuzco, _The Emperor's New Groove_, get with the program."

He laughs, light and airy, and shakes his head like he can't believe I exist. I'm not sure if this is good or not until he reaches across the table and covers the hand I have resting by my glass with his own. His fingers give mine a little squeeze just as our food arrives, and at several points throughout the meal I catch him with his fork lax in his hand and his eyes on me.

* * *

"Are you sure this is okay?" I ask for the hundredth time as Blaine chuckles and unlocks the large glass doors.

"My brother owns this place, remember?" he states, pulling me alongside him into the dark gym.

"Half-owns," I reply, a little argumentative, yet I still can't help but feel as if we're breaking the law.

Blaine hits the lights, grabs my hand and drags me back towards the locker rooms. "Even so," he says, pushing into the tiled room, "he gave me express permission to bring you here, so _please _calm down. You'll get wrinkles."

I gasp. "Blaine Anderson, you take that back!" The hooligan simply drops my hand with a grin and walks over to a large bag resting on a bench.

When he's got it unzipped, he starts pulling out a bundle of clothes and I stagger a bit when he thrusts them at me, pointing behind himself to the shower stalls.

"Go change," he orders, "and meet me on the mat." With that, he takes his own bundle and locks himself in the closest cubicle. I'm frozen for a moment, listening to the rustle of his clothes as he undresses, but the sound of his belt buckle clanking jars me into motion and I scramble into the stall at the very end of the row.

Blaine's been gone for a few minutes before I manage to convince myself to leave the privacy of the cubicle. He's never seen me this dressed down- nice jeans and soft button-ups are my daily norm, and he's just gotten me into black vinyl track pants and a deep blue, long-sleeve under-armor shirt. I lay my folded date-clothes in a pile on the bench next to Blaine's, then take a deep, fortifying breath and walk back out into the gym.

My date is sitting in the middle of the large blue floor exercise mat, legs spread in a stretch and back bent, arms reaching forward along the floor. He looks up when I enter.

"Hey!" he calls and waves me over. I take a ginger seat in front of him, facing him, and he immediately grabs my hands and pulls me into a stretch. "Those look good on you- they fit okay?" he asks, extending my arms and pushing my back down until my chest is just about touching the floor.

"They fit fine," I say to the floor, enjoying the feeling of my muscles being pulled around.

"I had to guess your sizes," Blaine goes on, tugging me to stand with him and leading me in a few more quick stretches, "which I'm actually terrible at, so I just got my sizes. Apparently, we are the same person."

I laugh joyfully at that and shake my head, drop quickly into a splits and hold it for several moments. When I come out of it, the only way to describe the look on Blaine's face is _hungry_. He isn't moving, and I'm fearful he may start drooling, so with a pinch to his arm I crow, "You're it!" and start a light jog around the perimeter of the mat, chuckling when Blaine shakes his head and follows after a long moment.

When we're sufficiently stretched and warmed up we take turns on each apparatus, starting at the mat and working our way around.

"Can I ask why we're here?" I question after Blaine completes a nearly flawless Arabian Front. I take a moment to replay the way the muscles of his back had shifted as he flipped.

Blaine's face falls a bit, the frown looking odd after his exuberant grin from seconds ago. "Do you not want to be here? Do you want to go somewhere else? Is there-" I slap a hand over his mouth and marvel at the feels of his lips against my palm. _Good Lord._

"This is fantastic," I assure him, "and I've missed this. But what made you decide to come here after our date?"

His brow furrows, as if he's not sure how I don't understand. It's not until I feel his mouth puckering against my skin that I realize I've still got my hand on his face, and I quickly remove it.

"Well," he begins to elaborate, moving to stand off to the side of the floor next to me, "when we first met you mentioned going to the gym all the time, and a few weeks ago you said you haven't been to a gym since you left Henry. I assumed it was something you really enjoyed doing, so I thought you might like to get back into it."

I just stare at him in a moment of incomprehension. It's been a very long time since someone has made the distinct effort to realize that I'm not as happy as I could be, and endeavor to change that. When I don't speak, Blaine begins to look worried and keeps talking.

"I come here every Tuesday and Friday evening," he says, shifting around like he's not quite sure what to do with himself. "So this is sort of a standing invitation, if you'd like to join me. I'm usually alone, because I have Cooper sitting Jude for me. It'd be nice to have some company. What do you say?"

The smile on my face right now is incredibly moony, I'm sure, but I find myself unable to care. With an elated laugh I grab both sides of Blaine's face, kiss him smack on the mouth, and run out onto the mat and mount into a double-back, turn, and layout into a double whip-back, grinning like a fool the entire time.

* * *

The day of the invitational is muggy. I'd made to sure to pack plenty of water, even though there will be fountains at the gym, and several bags of grapes, crackers, and trail mix for River. The night before, I'd feverishly packed and re-packed his kit bag, adding extra outerwear and then taking it out again, rearranging his grips and braces, tucking a few instant ice packs into the bottom before getting frustrated and dumping the entire infernal thing out onto the living room floor to pack it back the way it had been before I'd started messing with it. Then, I gently folded his brand-new team uniform and placed it on the very top. In my own bag, I placed everything I'd tried to shove into River's, including his spare uniform, his team jacket, and the ice packs.

Blaine and I had decided we'd ride over together, so River and I get up unfairly early to head out to the Andersons' for breakfast. When we arrive, Jude has only just woken up and is stumbling around upstairs, leaving River and I to follow Blaine through his large Victorian-esque home to the kitchen and help him whip up breakfast. Jude ambles downstairs just as the first pieces of French toast are turned out onto a plate, and the boys dig in, though I have to remind them not to eat too much.

After breakfast there's still nearly an hour before we have to hit the road, so Jude takes River into the playroom where his own home equipment is and they do some strength exercises for a while, until they get bored and join me and Blaine in the family room. Soon enough it's time to leave, and the boys alternate between excitement and nervousness during the ride over.

The Boston gym is a bit larger than ours, and with all of the judging tables set up, it looks more intimidating, too. There are four or five of the seven competing teams already present, and not a single other child, as far as I can tell, is as small as either Jude or River. There are only two levels competing today, five and six, and even the level five boys are taller. Jude, in fact, gets a little upset at this and spends a long time in Blaine's arms, face hidden against his father's neck.

Eventually, though, after Cooper and the rest of the team arrive and the friendly competition starts in earnest, he's calmed down enough to sit with the team without fidgeting. Blaine and I sit in the bleachers on the third row from the bottom so we're easily in sight no matter what apparatus the boys are on.

"I'm pretty sure I'm more terrified than either of them," I admit in a whisper to Blaine, who smiles and grips my arm with a comforting hand.

"They'll be fine," he says, sliding his palm down my arm until his hand is fitting into mine and our fingers are lacing like we've been doing this for years.

"They're tiny, and they're not as strong as the other kids, and they haven't been training as long, and-" Reminiscent of our first date, but reversed, he reaches over with his free hand and places it over my rambling mouth, stilling my speech. I glare at him, but quieten, and he takes back his hand.

"They are four-and-a-half and five years old, and they are performing in this sport at an eight-to-ten-year-old level," Blaine says in his soothing '_You're-going-to-calm-the-fuck-down-and-listen-to-m e_' voice. "They _love _gymnastics, and they are _damn _good at it. I bet that, even if they don't win, or even place, they'll still be just as excited about going to the gym on Monday."

I huff in defeat. He's right, of course. I'd even asked River what he'd feel if he didn't win, and he'd said, "What's that got to do with anything?" So. Point taken.

And just in time, too, as it's Jude's turn on the pommel mound, otherwise known as a 'mushroom'. Blaine and I cheer enthusiastically, waving our hands excitedly at him, and when he spots us in the crowd, he grins and waves back. It's a short event, about ten or twenty seconds of Jude swinging around, mostly simple circles with a couple of scissors. At this age, with a child's still-developing muscles, there really isn't much more they can do. As they get older they'll learn more strength tricks and gradually work up to the actual pommel horse, where they'll learn a variety of swings and handstand turns and flairs. Jude gets marked for his form and for rhythm- if his legs are properly aligned and if his swings are all evenly timed. Level six boys do give a brief performance on an actual pommel horse directly after they demonstrate on the mushroom, but it's still a very new apparatus for most of them. Their swings are more stilted on the horse, and the scissors far less impressive.

The entire meet is much the same. None of the levels six and seven boys have enough muscle yet to do anything terribly impressive, especially on the pommel and high bar events. To top it off, each and every level six routine is exactly the same. Every level until seven has a different compulsory routine that the kids learn, and are thus judged entirely for their technique during the tricks. Levels seven through ten get to design their own routines to a point, but must include certain required elements.

Even so, there is a clear distinction between talents and floor is River's best event- he snags first place for his tumbling, and I watch teary-eyed, voice hoarse from cheering, as he gets claps on the back from boys on other teams. Blaine rubs my shoulder in support, and leads me down the bleachers to collect our boys. There's quite a bit of time before the level six high-bar event, almost an hour and a half, so we sit with the kids along a wall and I pass out water and snacks. Blaine had laughed at me earlier for bringing a large backpack to the meet, but had changed his tune when he saw the gummy bears I'd slipped in as a treat.

"_Please_ can I have some more?" he begs of me, large hazel eyes going even wider, lower lip jutting out in a profound pout. The bag had been a decent size to begin with and it's nearly half-empty now, mostly thanks to Blaine.

"Just a few," I caution him, and reluctantly hand the bag over.

"Yes!" he exclaims, clapping excitedly and digging around inside, pulling out only red ones.

"No!" I shout, and grab for the bag. He cradles it to his chest protectively, already chewing at the bears he'd liberated. "Those are my favorite!"

He looks mildly contrite as he swallows, then grins slowly, glancing around furtively before he leans in a presses his lips to mine. I vaguely hear River's "_Ew,_" and assume that Jude is nodding in agreement, but I don't care so much. Blaine's lips taste like cherry gummy bears, and I can't think very far beyond that fact. When he pulls away, Blaine looks a little smug with himself.

"I think you've had enough sugar," I inform him, and he hands the bag over, simultaneously scooting closer to me and pressing his entire side against mine, then draws Jude into his lap.

Jude devours the grapes I'd packed and converses one-handedly, expressing his excitement to do his high-bar routine and commenting on his opponents. Neither boy had placed in the pommel event, yet neither is perturbed.

Finally Cooper calls for them again and we split up, Blaine and I retaking our seats in the bleachers as the boys converge with the team. The bar routines are quite stale- the boys mount with a chin-up pullover; then, using an undergrip, they cast, pop off the bar for a hot second, swing and turn into a mix-grip. Then the routine has them kip up, cast into a three-quarter giant, sit-up, undershoot, backswing, and end in a flyaway dismount. Jude, however, being quite small and yet strong, is able to get his body going a little faster than the others, and he hits all of his tricks very smoothly, no lengthy pauses like in most of the other routines. He wins impressively, a full two points above the nine-year-old runner-up, and earns a ride atop Cooper's shoulders in celebration.

"He is incredible," I breathe, briefly recalling the first time I'd ever seen the boy, flying around on the bars back at our home gym.

"I know," Blaine agrees, smiling so proudly at his boy that it makes my heart ache in the absolute _best_ way.

At this age, a good vault mostly involves simply getting over the damn thing, but it still terrifies me to watch these two tiny boys running pell-mell towards a stationary object with the intent to _fling _themselves at it with the help of a springboard. I can tell by the grip Blaine has on my hand that he shares my sentiments, and we both breathe deeply when neither boy falls or suffers an unfortunate crash like one boy from the home gym's team. Surprisingly, Jude scores in third place, with River not far behind in fifth.

Rings present a challenge to River and Jude. They require a lot of strength and control that they're both still working up to, so it isn't surprising when their scores are less than impressive. An older boy from their team takes second overall, though, bringing the team's score up to third. The parallel bars are similar, but a little better. Jude sticks his dismount perfectly, and River's handstands are phenomenal. They take fourth and third places, respectively.

"Ugh, awards," I complain at the end of the meet. I've got Jude on my lap, and River's on Blaine's, both of them scarfing down a few well-deserved gummy bears while I encourage them to drink their water.

Blaine laughs, but nods. While this isn't an actual meet, there are still ribbons being handed out to the top scorers. It's always a lengthy process, but so worth it to see River and Jude hoisted up onto the block to receive their gold ribbons, River for floor and Jude for high bar. In addition, River takes a fifth-place ribbon for his vault, third for parallel bars, and sixth for high bar. Jude comes out similarly, with his first in high bar, third for vault, fourth for parallel bars, and fifth for floor. I'm ecstatic for the both of them, and randomly squeeze Jude around the waist while we watch the rest of the awards.

The meet goes splendidly for the team- there are a lot of great scores, and the level six team wins second overall. When they tally the scores for each gym as a whole, ours takes first by a landslide.

"I think," Blaine begins seriously, signing with gravity while looking between River and Jude, "that this is a call for massive, _massive _bowls of ice-cream."

There are squeals from the both of them, little fingers quickly pack things up into their kit bags and wait impatiently for their older counterparts to catch up. It's still a little bit before we make it out of the gym- Cooper had gone around and congratulated all his kids and spoke briefly with them all about the first real meet in October. Eventually we do escape, pile into the Anderson Rolls and Google the nearest, best ice cream shop to celebrate.

* * *

At home for the evening, I waste no time in texting my father, urging him to fire up his computer and log into Skype so that River can gush about the competition.

And gush, he does.

For nearly forty minutes straight it's just River speaking animatedly at the screen, on which his grandparents are looking equal parts proud and confused. While he talks, sitting on my lap at our computer desk in the den, I'm texting Wes to inform him of River's ribbons. Moments later, there are two video screens up on the computer, and River takes a breath as if to start all over for Wes. I quickly derail that notion, assuring him that I've already told 'Uncle Wes', in thrilling detail, about his day. He nods and says, "Well," jutting his little nose into the air, "I'll just show him my ribbons, then."

He's exhausted after the excitement wears off. We'd made it home in time for dinner, but as soon as he clears his plate he's nodding off against the table. I settle him on the couch, intending to wake him at eight and then get him ready for bed.

Once he's down for the night, and I'm burrowing into a well-loved blanket on the couch with _Finding Nemo _ready to play on the television, my phone buzzes with a text from Blaine.

_How's the champ? Mine went out like a light about thirty minutes ago. Xx-Blaine_

The grin is compulsory- a man with an axe could be ready to chop off my fingers one by one, but if he mentions Blaine, I'd probably smile all through it.

_Some here. After a retelling to rival the length and complexity of 'The Iliad' to the Grandparents, he almost gave himself a mashed-potato facial. Xx-Kurt_

Snuggling into the plush couch cushions, a housewarming gift from Wes that we spent three hours in a furniture store to find- we must have laid on a hundred couches, looking for the _perfect_ one- I pull the blanket right up to my chin and hit 'play' on the remote, quite confident that I'll be spending the night down here.

_I can imagine. I'm actually about as exhausted as they are- it was a long day for everyone. Anyway, I texted with the intent to confirm our plans tomorrow. We still meeting here? Xx-Blaine_

River is about as excited to go to this museum as he was before the meet today. I think it's going to be a nice opportunity for the boys to get to play like actual kids instead of training all the time.

_Same here- I don't think I have the strength to move from my couch. Thank heavens my best friend insisted he find the comfiest one in the store- he made us lie on every single one! And yes, if it's still alright with you. 11:00? We can find a place for lunch in Boston, then hit up the museum. Xx-Kurt_

His texts are all nearly instantaneous, like he's staring at his phone just waiting for me to respond, and then typing back as quickly as possible.

_Your friend sounds a lot like one of mine. For a lawyer, he's really kind of odd like that. 11:00's fine. I'll look up some pizza joints, I think the kids will like that. xx-Blaine_

_Your friend's a lawyer? No way! So's mine, and he's a little crazy sometimes. I think all of the boarding school structure affected him more than he likes to admit. Anyway, pizza sounds great. I'm really looking forward to tomorrow. See you then? Xx-Kurt_

_Our friends should meet, I think they'd get along splendidly. And so am I. I actually had a question before we get together tomorrow…-Blaine_

_Yeeeees? X-Kurt_

_I would like to, officially, ask you to be my boyfriend. If you'll have me. –Blaine_

_I realize that asking over text is a little cowardly, but, sue me, I'm a coward. Yes? No? –Blaine_

_And 'boyfriend' does sound a little juvenile. Partner? Significant other? Lambykins? -Blaine_

There's a blush in my cheeks that heats the room by noticeable degrees, I'm sure. Then my tongue feels a little dry and I realize it's because my mouth is open in the most obscenely large smile.

_Blaine. Yes. I would be honored. Xx-Kurt_

_Oh thank God! Xx-Blaine_

_You were worried? I must be doing something wrong… -Kurt_

_No! You're perfect, I swear! But I think, with everything that happened with Henry and all, that you could understand how something like that can shatter a person's confidence. I've been leery about dating since Paul. –Blaine_

_I understand perfectly, Blaine, and you be as cautious as you need to be. However, I also think that this could be really good for the both of us, and the boys. I talk to River about you, and he adores you and Jude. Xx-Kurt_

_I talk with Jude about you, as well. I'm wary about bringing another person into his life, but something about you is irresistible, Kurt Hummel. Xx-Blaine_

_You flatter me, Blaine! How about we just take this really slow? Xx-Kurt_

_I think that's a great idea. See you tomorrow? Xx-Blaine_

_Bright and early, darling! I'll be the one with a rose on my lapel. Xx-Kurt_

_Do you watch anything other than Disney films and movies made pre-1960? Xx-Blaine_

_Not really, no. xx-Kurt_

_Haha, goodnight, Kurt. Sleep well. Xx-Blaine_

_Goodnight, Blaine. You too. Xx-Kurt_

* * *

Come morning, over pancakes and strawberries, I have, perhaps, the most adult conversation I've ever had with my four-year-old.

"River," I ask, gently drizzling honey over the strawberries atop his pancake, "you know how I've been hanging out with Mr. Blaine?"

He nods, hardly waits for me to move the bottle of honey before he's slicing into his food.

"I want to ask you if it would be alright if he were my boyfriend." I'm biting my lip, I will drop this relationship in a _moment_ if River expresses any discomfort with it.

River swallows his large bite of food before speaking, and I can't help but smile at his manners. He's not always a little gentleman, but he can be.

"Like Dad?" he asks, and I hate how vulnerable he sounds.

I sigh, and it feels like it comes from the very bottom of my lungs. "Not exactly, River, no," I begin. "Mr. Blaine and I really like each other, and we have a lot of fun together. I need to tell you something very important, are you listening?"

River's fork falls to his plate and he turns large grey eyes to me, nodding solemnly.

"Sweetheart, you know how your Dad got real mad sometimes, and he threw things around and made a lot of noise?" When River nods, I continue. "Well, when Jude was a baby, Mr. Blaine had a boyfriend like your Dad."

"He got mad a lot, too?"

I nod. "Yeah, baby. And, one day, he got so mad that he hurt Jude. He hit him on the head right here-" I tap softly at River's temple, "-and that's why Jude can't hear."

River looks like he's about to cry, his nose is already running and his hands are in fists atop the table. With a soft coo, I draw him into my arms and settle him on my lap, holding him close.

"I'm telling you all this," I explain to him, brushing his hair back with my hand in a soothing rhythm, "because I think you're old enough to understand that there are bad people in the world. But I also want you to understand that there are very, very _good_ people, too."

River sniffs. "And Mr. Blaine is a very, very good person?"

I can't actually tell if he's phrased it as a statement or a question, so I simply say, "He's the best person I've ever met."

Unexpectedly, River pouts exaggeratedly and looks at me. I laugh.

"Except you, of course!" I crow, tickling his sides until he grins and squirms.

"What about Uncle Wes? And Grandpa?" he cheeks, still smiling and trying to push my fingers away.

"They are all very, _very_ good people," I agree.

"Well," River shrugs, sliding off my lap to go back to his own chair, "if Mr. Blaine is like Uncle Wes, then he can be your boyfriend."

I chuckle fondly at ruffle his curls. "He can, huh?"

River grins around a strawberry and nods. "Does this mean I get to play with Jude a lot?"

The snort barrels out, an uncontrollable, mirthful sound, and I confirm, "Yes. Yes you do."

A few moments later, with the little one occupied once more by his breakfast, I shoot off a text to Blaine:

_Well. I just asked River if I could be your boyfriend, and we have his blessing. How about Jude? Xx-Kurt_

The reply comes quickly.

_Same here! Although, Jude seemed more concerned about his playtime with River than with our relationship. Xx-Blaine_

_Ha! River too! We're leaving in a couple hours, talk to you soon? Xx-Kurt_

_Can't wait :) xx-Blaine_

* * *

Jude and Blaine are waiting on their front steps when I pull into the drive, and the two kids are instantly conversing through the car window. I pout towards the backseat- River's picked upon Sign Language so much quicker than I have. My interactions with Jude are much more stilted than I'd like them to be, so I make a mental note to up my study hours.

In my musings I hadn't heard Blaine approach the car, and don't notice him until he's pulling open my door. I grin and unbuckle, let him tug me out and into a brief hug and kiss before I take River out and together we get him transferred over to the Anderson car. In less than two minutes, we're all on the road to Boston.

Perhaps the strangest thing about being in a car with a deaf child is the distinct lack of noise. The conversation is exuberant, grand gestures and exaggerated faces, yet utterly silent. Back in Ohio, transporting River and a friend or two usually caused migraines. The local drugstore began to know me by name, and often kept a box or two of Excedrin right at the counter for me.

Blaine types in the address of a local pizza shop when we enter the city, and the four of us have an early, light lunch before walking the couple blocks to the museum. There's a quick moment inside where Blaine and I give the boys very firm directions not to wander off, to ask before running into an exhibit, and to be safe. They don't always remember, at playgrounds and such, that they are much more fit than most other kids, and that not all children can keep up with them or play as vigorously as they do. When they give us consenting nods, we turn left into the lobby and head for the Balance climb, River bouncing at my side. He reaches over to tap Jude on the shoulder, signs out, 'Want to race?', to which Jude nods and smiles.

I roll my eyes, but don't chastise them. The museum is hardly buzzing, it's a Sunday at noon, and there's currently only one other kid in the structure. It's a three-story-tall climbing gym, made of curved and slanted platforms arranged haphazardly in a large column. Blaine leads the boys to the entrance at the bottom and they scoot quickly inside, crawling on hands and knees.

"Too bad we're too big," Blaine mourns, pouting a little as he peers towards the top of the structure. "This looks like fun."

I shake my head at him. "Twice a week you do gravity-defying stunts on a bar nearly ten feet off the ground, and you're upset that you don't get to climb a pile of magic carpets?"

He takes another look at the play set and laughs. "They do look a little Aladdin, huh?"

We mutually decide to move across the hall and to lean up against the wall facing the exhibit in order to keep an eye on the boys, who look to be about halfway up already.

"They're quick," I say, letting out a breath and reminding myself that there are nets, that it's physically impossible for them to fall off this thing.

Blaine doesn't say anything to that, and when I turn to glance at him, he's looking down at the hand I have hooked into my jeans pocket. With a little smile I bring it up and flip it over, and he grins widely when he takes it in his, draws it up to kiss the back then lets them swing down between us. We're a little bit distracted by each other; we don't hear the panicked voice for several moments.

"Daddy! Mr. Blaine!" River calls, and my heart turns cold. "Something's wrong with Jude!"

There's a second of stillness and then Blaine and I are crouched at the bottom of the structure. The other child and her parents had left several moments ago, so it's just our boys in there. I watch, terrified, as River carefully leads Jude all the way back down and tugs him out into the hall, where I get a good look at the boy.

His mouth is wide open and spasming on one side, his cheek twitching up in rhythmic bursts, and he seems to have lost control of his tongue, as well. There's a steady stream of saliva dripping down onto his chin and shirt. Jude is visibly upset, his eyes scrunched up and tears on his cheeks, his breaths hitching on every inhale.

"Oh, Jude, it's okay," Blaine soothes, signing the words quickly but clearly, before pulling him up into his arms. "You're okay, remember? You're okay."

I'm dumbfounded. _How is this okay? _But Blaine, calm as can be, turns to me and asks, "Bathroom?" I point behind him and he promptly carries his little boy through the swinging door, River and I at his heels.

He sets Jude down on the counter, and when I see he's reluctant to let go of the boy completely, I point to the paper towels in question and he nods gratefully.

"Thank you," he breathes, accepting the wad I hand him.

Jude is still crying as Blaine dampens the towels in the sink and wipes his son's cheeks before holding the paper to his still-wide mouth. His other hand cards fingers through Jude's hair and I can feel River's grip tight on my jeans. For the next minute, Blaine alternately soothes Jude and checks his watch, occasionally wiping at the boy's chin and repositioning the paper towels. Finally the spasms slow, then stop completely, and Jude lets out a few more hiccuping sobs.

"Okay now?" Blaine asks him, holding on to Jude's hands as he signs.

Jude nods and sniffles. I pull more paper towels and exchange them for the dirty, saliva-soaked ones in Blaine's hand. He once again nods gratefully before cleaning up the little boy, who is already looking much better. When Jude cracks a smile, I feel safe asking, "What the hell was that?"

Blaine laughs, lifts a sleepy-looking Jude into his arms and cuddles him close. "Don't freak out," he starts, prompting me to simply raise an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "Seriously, Kurt, it's a harmless version of epilepsy. I had it when I was a kid, too, and so did my brother. He'll grow out of it in his early teens."

I breathe out in relief, but say, "That didn't look so harmless."

River's shaking a bit, I notice, so I bring him up into my arms and turn to stand next to Blaine so that the kids are face-to-face. River reaches out and gently touches Jude's cheek, and Jude nuzzles contendedly into his hand.

"Most of his seizures happen while he's asleep," Blaine explains. "These ones don't happen very often, and they take him by surprise, that's all. I swear to you, he is _fine_. Neurologist, remember?"

I laugh and concede his point, then notice just how tired Jude looks. "Do you think we should pack it in? Will he be up for the rest of the museum?"

Blaine nods, cups the back of Jude's head tenderly. "He'll probably bounce back in ten, twenty minutes, tops. There's a café across the lobby. Want some hot chocolate?"

River nods enthusiastically, his look of worry finally dissipating.

"Hot chocolate sounds good."

* * *

The rest of the Hummel-Anderson excursion passes, blessedly, uneventfully. After his power nap, Jude becomes his vibrant self and demands that we see the rest of the place. The two boys spend the majority of their time in the "Kid Power" area, where all of the activities are hands-on and physical. There are more people in those parts, as well, and more filter in as the day progresses. Even after we complete our tour of the second floor exhibits, Jude and River insist that we go back downstairs for the "Kid Power" room again.

When the boys have their fill of fun and are dragging their feet, we walk back to the car and head for the Anderson house, where Blaine orders Chinese take-out, a guilty pleasure of his and Jude's, and tries to get me to concede to a viewing of the first Harry Potter film.

"No, Blaine," I say once more, growing impatient for the food to arrive. At least with the distraction of the doorbell, Blaine won't ask-

"_Please_ Kurt? Just the first one, _please?_" Blaine turns his pouting on full-blast, widens his eyes, pushes his lower lip out, and manages to conjure up a few tears.

It's very, very difficult not to kiss him when he looks like that, so with a surreptitious glance at the occupied children, very intent on putting together a fifty-piece puzzle, I lean forward and plant one right on his pouty lip.

"You may put in the movie, BUT-" I interject when Blaine begins to look far too pleased with himself, "I will staunchly ignore it."

The pouting returns. "Aw, _come on_, Kurt!"

Saved by the bell.

As Blaine moves away to pay the delivery man, I quickly pull down the first book of Harry Potter off of his shelf, along with the first DVD, and settle into the couch. He can have his movies. I adore the books, but cannot stand the films. He's going to have to learn to live with that.

A moment later Blaine comes back in and arranges cartons on the coffee table. Lured by the smell of horrendously delicious food, River and Jude scramble over and kneel in front of the couch, grabbing at plastic forks and dishing out rice onto their plates.

The evening is nice, and there are several moments where I find myself leaning into Blaine's side, his mouth moving against my temple as he quotes the movie while I flip steadily through my book. There's an ache in my chest, a throbbing, a _'You could have this. This could be your life'_. I try not to dwell on it; I've hardly known this man two months and I'm more invested in him than I think I ever was with Henry. It is terrifying, and it is exhilarating.

With a sigh I banish the thoughts once more, snuggle more contentedly into Blaine's arms, glance at my boy watching the television with wonder on his little face, and think, '_I am content_.'

* * *

_**A/N: I want to thank everyone SO MUCH for the favorites/reviews/follows. It's very inspiring to see people responding positively to a story. **_

_**Disclaimer: I do not, in fact, participate in gymnastics. As such, no matter how much research I do, I'm sure I will inadvertently lie to you all at points about the structure of meets and other things. I apologize in advance. That being said, some things I will change for my own purposes, either to simplify them, or to make them work for the story. So please bear with me on that.**_

_**I don't usually like to do Author's Notes, so I will say one last thing: Thanks for reading!**_


	5. Verbs of Being, And Verbs of Action

"Shit," I mutter into the phone, glancing up when River gasps from the kitchen table next to Jude. I grimace at him in apology, then wave at the workbook in front of him, silently telling him to get back to his work.

It's the second week of September. Since Jude and River have committed themselves to their gymnastics training so thoroughly and are on the Elite track, they're getting home-schooled to fit around their schedules. River's not quite in school yet, but Jude is nearly six and, as such, is in the first grade. Blaine was going to hire a tutor to come and work with Jude during the day while he's at work, but I'd asked him if he wouldn't mind sending Jude to me, instead. I'd made sure to get fully qualified to home-school last year, in preparation for River, and, really, it just makes more sense this way. Their training is now in the early afternoons, from one to five, so Jude comes to me in the mornings, we meet Blaine at the gym, and he goes home for the night.

River, though technically in Kindergarten, is quite bright. I'd caught him copying out of Jude's workbooks on more than one occasion, and decided not to fight it, ordering him his own set so he could study with Jude. My father used to tell me while I was growing up that my mother would often sit me on her lap and read to me out of some of the great, classical works. My bedtime stories came from Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens. I'd started reading just before two, so it was no surprise, really, when I went to college for writing. I'd done the same thing for River, hoping to pass on the excitement of literature, and it seems to have worked.

I watch the two curly heads poring over a reading passage in their books for another moment before I turn my attention back to the phone.

"Are you sure, Wes?" I breathe, my heart pounding just a little bit faster.

"Positive," he says, and he sounds so world-weary, so unlike the incredibly juvenile Wes that I love. "He left town the other day, and I asked one of his coworkers where he went. She said he'd made plans to be at a technology convention in Boston over the weekend."

The breath heaves out of me. "Wes," I implore, and I don't even know what I'm asking for.

He sounds a little panicked when he speaks again. "Kurt, please don't get upset," he hurries to say, "he won't get near you." There's a small pause. "Listen, I'm in Cambridge again on Thursday. I'll extend my stay a bit, chill out with you and the little dude for the weekend, how does that sound?"

I'm nodding before he's even finished speaking. "Yes. _Please_."

"Okay, I'm there, _don't worry_."

My heart begins to slow once more, and I begin to feel in control of myself again. "You're my very favorite person, Wes."

He chuckles, then crows, "Lies! Your little 'Monster' told me the other day that you have a _boyfriend_."

My face floods with color. "Wes…"

"Who's your _boyfriend_, Kurt?" he coos, and then he makes obnoxious, lip-smacking noises on the other end of the line and I frown into the phone.

"You are _twelve_, Wesley," I admonish, leave him with, "I might introduce him to you when you visit. If you _behave_," and then hang up abruptly, cutting off his cackling laugh.

I move back to the table and sit in-between the two boys, ready to switch them from Reading to Math. They groan, even Jude makes a disgusted little vocalization, but I just smile and drag over my whiteboard and dry-erase markers.

"Okay, who wants to do some two-digit addition?" I say and sign, and laugh at the looks I receive.

* * *

"Sweetheart, is everything okay?" Blaine's voice calls worried down the phone line.

I swallow thickly, peek in on the boys playing quietly in River's room with his action figures. "My friend called earlier," I explain, a little shakily, and I hate how much this affects me. "Henry's going to be in Boston this weekend."

There's a concerned silence. "Does River know?"

I shake my head, even though Blaine can't see, and begin making my way downstairs. "No. I don't want him to feel like he isn't safe. This is our _home_ now, he should be _safe _here."

"And he will be," Blaine assures, before taking a pause. "Are you…do you need me to stay with you? Or you here? Or…"

The offer is, perhaps, a little bit more awkward than it should be. We've been dating for some weeks now, but neither of us is particularly interested in taking it anything but measured. An advantage to being a single parent out of an awful relationship is the incredible perspective- neither of us was ever going to waste time on a relationship that didn't feel absolutely right and like it would last, so now that we're in one, there is absolutely no reason not to take our time. There have been kisses, _goodness _have there been kisses; writhing, needy little sessions nabbed quick out of the air during nap time or snack time. And, yes, there has been groping, quick jaunts up a shirt or down a back beneath taut fabric.

Still, every night we are in our own beds, in our own homes, and part of me doesn't want to change that just yet, and most certainly not because of Henry.

I swallow and say evenly, but not without gratitude, "Thank you, Blaine, but we'll be fine. My best friend is in town on Thursday, and he's decided to stay the weekend with us."

There's a relieved little sigh down the line. "Good, that's good. I know we haven't…and we're not quite…"

"Blaine," I chuckle softly, "I know. It's fine. Unless…" and here my heart pounds just a little bit quicker, "unless you want to…?"

"Kurt," he says, and I can just picture him, with a tiny little smile at the side of his mouth, hazel eyes alight with amusement, _damn that man is beautiful_, "I promise you: I like the way we are. For me, with Paul, sometimes it felt like the sex was the only thing keeping us together, and I don't ever want that to happen with you. Not only do we deserve better for ourselves, but that would be incredibly unfair to the kids. And it's only been a few weeks, you know?"

I'm nodding again, like a fool in the middle of my empty living room, because I've never been so 'on the level' with another person.

"No, absolutely," I agree with him, perching on the arm of my couch and glancing out the window. "And, not to say it's _going_ to happen, but there is a chance that we could break up, and sleeping together always makes stuff like that really awkward. I don't ever want to feel awkward around you."

"Me neither," he says softly. "But can I be honest with you right now?"

"Please do."

He laughs. "This, right here, this talking? This laying it out, 'Here's what I want, here's what I don't want'? This is what makes me believe, with all my heart, that we are in this for the long haul. And I desperately want to be with you for the long haul."

My blank television screen has become the most interesting thing in the room, if only for the fact that, quite suddenly, it's playing the 'Kurt and Blaine in Ten Years' film. It's all so vivid in my head, there's a future for me and River with this man, and I'll be damned if I don't do everything in my power to keep hold of it. I'm not in love. Not yet. And I don't think Blaine is, either. But the potential? The groundwork? It's all so much more than there.

"Kurt?" comes a little call over the line, and I'm startled out of my own head.

"Yeah, sorry, what?" I breathe into the phone, and I hope I don't sound as winded as I feel.

"Was that too much?" Blaine asks, and there's a faint tapping from his end. "Did I freak you out?"

I shake my head. "No, Blaine. I feel exactly the same."

He sighs happily, and then groans a bit. "Listen, I've got to go. There's a meeting. I might be a little late to the gym, so can you save me a seat?"

"Absolutely," I laugh. "Go save lives, Doctor Anderson."

He snorts, and I hear him moving around his office. "Around here it's 'Doctor Blaine', or even 'Doctor B.' I don't think I've been called 'Doctor Anderson' since I graduated med school."

"Well, either way, you've got kids to help. See you soon. _Mwah_," I make an exaggerated kissing noise into the phone, and he chuckles as he makes one back and then hangs up.

Later, when I've been sitting in the gym bleachers for an hour and Blaine comes hustling in with a folder under his arm and his bag slipping from his shoulder, and he drops onto the bench next to me with a loud kiss to my cheek and he takes my hand as I tell him how Jude had a little seizure during his nap and how River is reading 'Peter Pan', and Blaine smiles at me with all of his teeth, I feel like we've been doing this for _years _and it makes the bottom of my stomach drop out in the _best way_.

* * *

On Thursday, Blaine calls from work around eleven, as usual, and mentions that his lawyer friend has stopped by to go over the last little bits of his divorce to Paul.

"And I'll finally be free of that asshole," he mutters darkly, "He's dragged this out so long, I feel like he's been strapped to my ankle for the last four years."

Blaine had been very upfront about Paul when we started dating. The man, apparently, had refused to sign anything for over two years, and then not only petitioned for custody of Jude, but tried to make off with a sizable chunk of Blaine's cash, as well.

"He's a psychopath," Blaine had grumbled one day. "He went into it knowing he'd never get custody, he didn't even _want_ custody, he just wanted to make my life hell."

However, today marks the last severing tie, and I can feel Blaine's relief and excitement through the phone.

"Why don't you bring the kids here?" he suggests. "I'll go order lunch and we can eat in my office and celebrate. I don't actually have much else to do today."

I agree, and the kids are bundled into the car moments later.

* * *

Jude hates the hospital.

Between his hearing loss and his Rolandic Epilepsy, he's seen more of the building than he'd ever cared to. He signs to me one-handed as we walk in, his other little hand gripping tight to my fingers, that he doesn't ever want to be a doctor like his dad.

I'm only a little overwhelmed as we stagger inside. The waiting room has few scattered parents filling out clipboards of information, kids hanging at their sides or crawling under chairs, and there are a couple of nurses manning the desk. Blaine had texted that we would need to stop at the front- he's left my name- and get visitor badges, which goes smoothly. I place the red stickers on the fronts of River's and Jude's shirts, and then grimace as I place mine, and we continue on.

Blaine works on the fourth floor. It's not so bustling as I'd imagined, just a few kids walking the halls while strapped by intravenous lines to poles, with a nurse close by just in case. I follow the numbers on the walls and the lines on the floor to find his office. There's a large window right next to his door, and Jude runs right up to it, waving his arms to catch his father's attention. Blaine's grin is blinding, even from a distance, and he rises from his desk to swing the door open and scoop up his squirming boy.

"Hey!" Blaine exclaims, supporting Jude with one strong arm and reaching the other towards me. My hand reaches out automatically, like a conditioned response. "How's your day been?"

He leans in for a quick kiss, which I happily give, and ushers us inside the large office. There's an enormous dark wood desk, bookshelves all along an entire wall, and a seating area with a couch, two chairs, and a low table, all of it back-dropped by a wall-to-wall window. River immediately climbs up into Blaine's large desk chair and spins around.

"Not bad," I say, because really, these two kids are about as well-behaved as they come. "River, you'll make yourself sick," I warn, then realize he probably gets more g-forces on the mat at the gym than he'll get in Blaine's chair, and amend it to, "You'll break the chair."

Blaine laughs. "He's fine. The food will be here soon, Wes ran out to get it about thirty minutes ago, so he should be back any second."

I start, then look at Blaine in confusion. "Wes?"

He doesn't look up from Jude's hands, which are signing out a made-up story about a rocket, when he answers, "My lawyer friend, Wesley. But he hates 'Wesley', so we call him Wes."

My mouth is hanging open unattractively, this is either an incredible coincidence or this 'Wes' is the same-

The door is shoved open roughly and a voice carries into the office over the sound of crinkling plastic bags, "I grabbed a ton of that spicy mustard for you, bro, and some extra egg rolls because you can never have-"

The voice stops, the chair ceases squeaking, and then River's excited squeal breaks the silence. "Uncle Wes!"

Blaine hadn't noticed the moment of silence, but he startles at River's words, looking up just in time to see River wrap his arms around Wes' thighs.

"Uncle…?" he mouths, his face drawn in bemusement.

Wes, too, looks a bit shocked, but then he starts laughing and trying to walk further into the office while holding three bags of food and tugging along a small child. After he sets the bags down on the table he bends to toss River into the air and catch him close, making the little boy giggle furiously.

"Little dude!" Wes crows. "I've missed you, man, how's it going?"

Blaine and I share a look, a _what-are-you-doing-with-my-best-friend _look, but Jude breaks it when he wiggles in Blaine's arms to be let down. When he's on the ground he runs over to Wes and River and joins in the giggling, though he too seems confused.

"Your lawyer friend is Wes?" I clarify. "_My _Wes?"

Blaine frowns. "_Your _Wes? He was _my _Wes first!"

"So?" I counter. "Wes said you lost touch in college and only started talking again a couple of years ago. Ergo, he's been my friend longer, so he's _my _Wes."

"Now wait just a minute," Blaine starts, but we're interrupted when Wes pelts our heads with wrapped fortune cookies.

The two of us look over to see Wes and the boys staring at us with over-exaggerated pouts on their faces, the kids obviously having been coached by Wes as it's clear they're trying not to smile.

"No one likes it when mommy and daddy fight," Wes whines, tossing a set of chopsticks at each of us, which we only just manage to hold on to. "You can work out your custody schedule after lunch. Jude is hungry."

With a last little glare at Blaine, I stalk over to the table and hunker down on the floor next to River, where he immediately offers me an egg roll and a grin.

Over lunch it hashes out that Wes and Blaine really had been best friends in high school, though two years apart. Wes had been a junior the year after Blaine graduated, and that had been the year that I'd transferred part way through. Wes and I had graduated together, and gone to colleges near each other, and remained close through it all. However, Blaine had apparently reduced contact to occasional social networking updates around the time he'd started dating Paul, and only really reconnected with Wes during a rather emotional Facebook-chat-turned-Skype-breakdown about a year after he'd left his husband. Wes had surprised him by offering to take his divorce case, and soon enough the two became like brothers.

"Small world," Blaine mutters, wiping a bit of sauce from Jude's cheek. The boy smiles, signs 'thanks', and stuffs another bite of food into his mouth, smearing more gooey brown sauce across his lips. Blaine rolls his eyes with a fond smile.

I clear my throat loudly and stand from Blaine's desk where I'd been penning something onto a blank sheet of calendar paper.

"Okay, here's the deal," I announce, turning the paper around so that the other two can see the colorful pen marks clearly. I point to each respective box on the calendar week as I say to Blaine, "I get him Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays, and every other Saturday. You get Tuesday, Wednesday, and Sunday, and the alternating Saturday. If you want to trade a day, I need a weeks' notice, and you can't take it back once you've traded. Capisce?"

Blaine just laughs and hauls me down into his lap, stabs a bit of carrot and noodle on his fork and shoves it into my mouth as Wes looks on, shaking his head with a grin.

* * *

Friday passes in a lazy haze.

Blaine has the day off work and spends it home with Jude after a very brief session of school in Kurt's dining room that ends in frustrated tears. Kurt doesn't begrudge him a thing; being an author means he's home nearly twenty-four-seven with his kid. He only spends any significant time at the publisher's office with his editor when his books are closer to print, so he can't imagine being away from his son at work for hours every single day.

So while Blaine and Jude have some quality father-son time, Wes, River and I hit up the mall in the morning for a little shopping. Wes needs some new shirts and another tie or two, which bores River endlessly, but he sticks it out like a champ when I promise him a toy store perusal. After Wes is set, we nip into a fashionable little kids' boutique where I pick out a few nicer things for River; anticipating a growth spurt, I buy them a size or two larger than he needs right now.

River insists on going into the sports store, and I don't argue that. My weekly gym-going sessions with Blaine are fantastic, but I want a few better-quality workout pieces than the ones I have. Of course, I make sure to pick things that not only allow maximum flexibility, but that also, perhaps, accentuate certain features. On more than one occasion I've caught Blaine staring unabashedly at my biceps as I work the parallel bars.

Finally Wes and I are tugged into the toy store by an excited River, and while he and his Uncle go through shelves of classic car model kits, I nip down the aisles until I find some plushies and root around for any that I'm missing. I manage to find a little Lady to go with my Tramp, but that's all. Wes surprises me by footing the bill, claiming, "The cars are as much for me as they are for River," so I let him. Sure enough, that evening after gym practice sees my dining room table covered in newspapers with little plastic car bits scattered about and drying after being meticulously painted or glued, River sticking his tongue out in concentration as he fits two pieces together.

* * *

"_Vive la révolution!_" comes the cry down the hall Saturday morning, little feet stomping up and down the hall while he repeats the phrase, "_Vive la révolution!_"

There's a massive grin on my face as I slide out of bed and race downstairs, catching River at the bottom and tossing him over my shoulder.

"Javert!" he screeches, waving around a little foam sword, no doubt from Wes. "I'm the stronger man by far!"

"Oh, are you?" I counter, and tickle him fiercely in the ribs. We tumble into the living room just in time to catch Wes, who's wearing nothing but his boxers, a t-shirt, and a tri-corner hat, gently tipping over the couch and piling the cushions on top.

"Marius, to the barricade!" he calls, diving behind the furniture and grabbing up another foam sword.

River leaps out of my arms and scrambles behind the couch. He, too, is in his pajamas, a red and black checkered set that makes his auburn hair look more ginger than brown. I look down at my own sweats and bare chest- I hadn't bothered to put a shirt on last night as my room had been unusually warm- and, with a shrug, swing out the dining room chairs to line them up across the living room from the couch. Blaine and Jude are coming over for brunch, but there's plenty of morning left to fit in a revolution beforehand.

"You of the barricade, listen to this," I crow from behind my structure. "Give up your guns or die!"

To which Wes replies, peering over the top of their fortress with narrowed eyes, "Let them come in their legions and they will be met!" and River adds, to my immense pride, "Let's give 'em a screwing they'll never forget!"

The battle is fierce.

Wes and River have amassed a pile of Nerf and rubber-band guns, and I manage to swipe a few before retreating back to my fort just as the opening volleys fly. The cries of the wounded pierce the air amidst the _thwacking _of foam bullets on the walls and wood floors. River, at one point, doubles up as Gavroche and very theatrically dies at the foot of the barricade, but not before tossing the handful of ammo he'd collected from the floor over the top of the couch to Wes. A quiet moment later, he scrabbles up and announces, "Okay, I'm Marius again!" and retreats behind the couch.

Wes beams at him and calls out, "Platoon of sappers advancing toward the barricade!"

I take my cue and rise a little on my knees, loading more pellets into my Nerf rifle and leveling it at their barricade.

Little River, curls wild with frizz and cheeks dark red with excitement pipes out his line, "Troops behind them, fifty men or more!" and then both the blackguards screech, "FIRE!" and the fighting begins anew.

Later, I lie amongst the discarded pellets and broken rubber bands, desperately trying to catch my breath, but the laughing makes it difficult. I've surrendered to the students, and Marius sits atop Enjolras' shoulders, whooping in delight. As Wes, hat abandoned atop the battle-weary barricade, swings River down into his arms and begins to tickle him, there's a knock at the door.

I heave myself off the floor, brushing at a Nerf bullet that's gotten stuck to my chest, and leave them to their giggling. Smiling so hard it hurts, I unlock the door and tug it open only to slam it shut once more.

Now I'm breathless for another reason entirely, and Wes must have noticed because the laughing ceases and I hear him tell River to go up to his room and close the door. Wes comes to stand near me, there's a pounding on the other side of the front door, but I don't open it again until I hear River shut himself in his room.

"What the hell was that, Kurt?" Henry growls at me, his business suit rumpled and eyes bloodshot. He's swaying just the smallest bit, but the sharp odor on his breath seals the deal. Henry Morgan is very, very drunk.

"Just go away, Henry," I say as evenly as I can. I'm not so worried about him hitting me, or screaming at me, but I'll be damned if he gets anywhere near my kid.

Henry shakes his head and starts forward, like he's going to force his way inside, but Wes moves just the smallest bit closer to me, our arms touching and our bodies blocking the doorway entirely, and Henry stops.

He peers between the two of us with unfocused eyes, his brown hair limp across his forehead. Despite his wrinkled clothes and foul breath, his drunkenness has done little to his handsomeness, but that's about all he has going for himself.

"I always wondered when you two would shack up," Henry grouches, raising a hand to inspect his fingernails. "Does the kid call you 'Papa' yet?"

I roll my eyes. "You know perfectly well that Wes and I are friends, and that he's straight. So please, _fuck off_."

Henry's face turns murderous. "Listen, you little _bitch_," he grinds out, "I don't give a _shit _who you're fucking, but it's over. You're going to pack up the brat, and get your ass in that car, you hear me?"

My jaw is swinging somewhere around my ankles, and my mind is having trouble catching up to his words. _He wants…what?_

"What the hell are you talking about, Henry?" I whisper, dangerously low, and Wes has gone impossibly still beside me.

Henry steps right up to the lip of the door and thrusts his face in close to mine. "Get the kid. Get your _shit_. You're coming back to Ohio with me."

Wes takes a firm, but not painful, grip on his shoulders and pushes him back several inches. Henry turns his furious gaze to the man, but Wes simply releases him and holds his hands palm-out in front of him.

"Kurt isn't going anywhere," Wes says, slowly, evenly. He keeps his voice low and soothing. "I think it's time for you to leave."

But Henry doesn't appreciate that. He growls low in his chest, and a vein pounds in his forehead. "I am not going anywhere until those two have their asses back in Ohio." He's speaking with such venom that the occasional fleck of saliva flies from his mouth, and his neck is straining with rage. "I did not come all this way to go back empty handed. They _will_ pack up, they _will_ come home, and I _will _get my fucking money!"

I gasp. "Your _money_? What?" But then it dawns on me, and I'm surprised it hasn't happened sooner. My jaw is tight when I say, "Daddy finally found out where all your money's going, huh?"

Wes looks at me, confused, but I shake my head at him. Henry looks like he's gearing up to go another ten rounds, but I am _furious_ right now, and more than sick of his _shit_.

"You've lost everything, haven't you?" I continue, crossing my arms over my still-bare chest. "You still think I didn't know what you were doing every Sunday night? You're an awful liar, Henry, and I _knew _you'd eventually blow everything at that stupid game!"

Henry's gone silent, but he might as well be foaming at the mouth. His face is bright red, hands clenched in fists at his sides with his knuckles stark white.

I'm on a roll, and part of my brain is telling me not to poke the lion, but the larger, more vindictive part of my brain is looking for a bigger stick.

"You bet money you don't have, didn't you?" I ask rhetorically, but the scowl I receive from Henry confirms it. "So you owe your buddies money, but you can't save any because you can't stop buying booze. I bet it killed you to ask your dad, didn't it? And when he found out about the drinking, he said he wouldn't bail you out until you've gotten your life back together, right?"

"_Shut up!_" Henry screams, spit flying through the air. Some of it lands on my chin and I wipe it away with a dainty finger.

"_NO!_" I shout right back. "I will _not _shut up! You want me and River to go back to Ohio so you can pretend for Daddy dearest that you have your life back. You want us so you can fund your boozing and your poker, and _I won't do it!_"

Henry, face unrecognizable with rage, pulls back a fist and launches it straight into my stomach.

Briefly, I'm thankful that I haven't eaten anything yet, but then I just _hurt_ and double over on the stoop. I sink to my knees, vaguely aware of the sound of a car pulling into the drive and muffled voices and a small scuffle, but I can't lift my head to see what's happening.

A shout, pounding footsteps on grass and then gravel, the slam of a car door, and then tires peeling away in haste.

Moments later there's a gentle hand on my back and strong fingers tugging at my chin. I look up and find concerned hazel eyes and groan out, "Shit. Brunch."

Blaine forces out a watery chuckle and eases me to my feet. I see Wes extracting a wide-eyed Jude from Blaine's car, where I assume the boy had stayed in safety during the scuffle with Henry, along with a plastic bag before he closes and locks the doors. There are pattering footsteps from the second floor hall and then on the stairs.

"Should we take him to the hospital?" Wes asks, coming up to me and Blaine with a worried Jude in his arms. The poor boy looks so confused, so I reach out a hand and run it through his curls. He manages a little smile, and it makes me feel better.

"I don't think he needs one," Blaine says, and he leads me into the living room, presumably to lay me down on the couch, but he draws up short. "Uhm…"

I laugh, and it hurts. "French Revolution. Wes?"

"On it," he says, and sets Jude down before quickly clearing a space in the discarded darts and rubber bands and easing the couch back to rights. River comes in from his perch on the stairs, sees the darkening bruise on my abdomen and immediately starts crying.

"Oh, shh, sweetheart," I tell him, drawing him in carefully. His forehead presses right along the edge of the bruise and I wince, but I don't let him go until Blaine makes me lie down on the re-made couch. I give River a kiss to his messy curls and wipe his tears before letting Blaine lower me across the cushions.

"Why aren't you wearing a shirt?" Blaine asks as he pokes around my stomach with practiced fingers while River stands near my head, and Wes and Jude amble around picking up the room. I'd probably enjoy being poked at by my boyfriend on any other day, but on this day, it hurts like a bitch.

"Didn't sleep in one," I say around a pained gasp, "and revolutions don't wait for people to put on shirts."

He laughs, asks a few questions, then sits back with a gentle pat to my hip. "I'm going to grab you some ice for this, but you should be fine. Let me know if the pain starts getting worse at any point, okay?"

I nod and he lets himself into the kitchen. Jude and Wes have collected up all the Nerf ammo and have reassembled the guns, and Jude playfully fires off a dart at Wes' face. River sits gingerly on the edge of the couch and reaches up to touch my face.

"What're you thinking about, little monster?" I ask him, smiling softly.

He shrugs a little shoulder and eventually says, "He hurt you. Is he gonna hurt me, too?"

Before I can answer, Wes scoffs from the floor where he and Jude are playing with the darts, and Blaine comes in with a flexible ice pack wrapped in a clean dishtowel.

"Not likely buddy," Wes assures River, then he says to me, "Soon as you can walk without moaning, I'm taking you down to the courthouse and we're filing a restraining order."

"Your sentiment is touching, Wes," I grumble, hissing as Blaine places the ice against my throbbing skin. He winces and sympathy and speaks as he walks over to the bag Wes had brought in with Jude.

"This was supposed to be a 'Happy One Month' sort of thing," he explains, bringing the bag over to the couch and lifting my feet so he can slide under them. When my calves are settled across his lap, he continues. "I suppose it's more of an 'I'm Sorry Your Ex Punched You, Feel Better' kind of thing now," and he pulls an armful of stuffed animals from the bag.

I grin at him as River lines them up on my legs, and Jude ambles over to see what's happening. Blaine gives him a very watered-down version of events, and the boy looks relieved when he's told that I don't need to go to the hospital.

"Because you're a Doctor?" Jude asks with quick signs, climbing up to sit on my legs in Blaine's lap.

"Because I'm a Doctor, yes," Blaine affirms, smiling when Jude toys with the ear of a little white kitten.

"I'm going to make coffee," Wes announces, leaning his head over the couch directly above mine. "Want some?" I nod, and he pats my cheek and goes after asking Blaine, as well.

"Let's see," I mumble, grabbing at my new toys. "Who do we have here?" Speaking and signing is becoming second-nature around Jude, I notice, watching my hands make the proper forms.

"This one's Tod!" River exclaims, holding up a fox that's as big as his head.

I laugh and nod. "Yes it is! But do you know who these are?" I gesture to the three kitten toys, one black, one orange, and one white. "Jude, do you know?"

Jude bites his lip and points to each one as he spells their names: Toulouse, Marie, and Berlioz.

"Nice job," I tell him, and he giggles breathlessly when his dad tickles him briefly. "You spelled them perfectly, too."

Wes brings out three mugs of coffee, and Blaine moves everyone off the couch to help me sit up. Once I'm upright, Wes and Blaine cram themselves in on either side of me with River on Blaine's lap and Jude on Wes'.

"So," I say, taking a sip of coffee, "I know I promised you a home-cooked brunch today, but I'm proposing a lunch out instead."

Blaine and Wes agree, and as soon as I've showered and struggled into proper clothing, we head out for our favorite little diner.

* * *

_-A Moment of Blaine-_

Jude and I return home in the mid-afternoon from lunch with Kurt, Wes, and River. It's been an emotional day; one that I hadn't been expecting. We'd pulled up just in time to see that asshole sucker-punch Kurt, and then wrestled with the bastard in the front yard only to have him escape before we could call the police. Watching the bruise on Kurt's abdomen darken and spread over the next hours hadn't exactly been a highlight, either.

I'm yawning as I unlock the front door, Jude hanging on to one of my belt loops and blinking tiredly as he sags against my hip. With a smile I pick him up and edge into the house, making sure to lock the front door behind us.

"Nap?" I ask him, and he signs back, "Together?"

I nod; a nap sounds perfect.

He changes into his short-sleeve pajama set, soft cotton in a rich blue plaid with hot pink accents, and sets his hearing aid on his night stand while I wiggle into plain flannel bottoms and a white t-shirt.

"Story?" I sign when I come into his room, and he nods, climbing up into his large bed.

Jude's room is a sensory playground. His walls are a soft grey with darker grey trim, and his furniture is all sleek black wood. There are a few lamps of varying colors atop the dresser and desk, and some of them rotate, others change colors, and a few of them flash. He has a large beanbag chair in one corner piled high with stuffed animals made out of an immense variety of materials; Jude can distinguish between each one by touch alone. All of the clothes in his closet and dresser have had the tags snipped off because they bother him, and the small air freshener plugged in near the door, next to the bookshelf, gently emits a light lavender scent.

I pick a book from his shelf without really looking. It doesn't actually matter what I read before he sleeps; his bedtime reading isn't about reading at all. Book in hand, I crawl up to the head of his bad and slip under the covers to lie on my back. Once I've gotten comfortable, Jude lays himself face-down on my chest, his face tucked into the side of my neck with his nose pressed into the skin just under my ear. He raises a hand and presses it gently into the other side of my throat below my jaw. Once he's settled, and I've pulled the blankets up around us, I crack open the book and begin to read.

My voice is a low hum to him, a vibration that he feels where our chests are pressed together, and where his hand pushes at my throat. I can feel his mouth working silently as I read; he feels the changes in pitch, the stop-start of every new sentence, and he's trying to work it out in his own throat. He hates to speak, to use his voice at all, but he's fascinated by mine. Sometimes, when he's particularly upset, forgoing the sign language and simply pressing his hands to my throat while I talk is the best way to calm him down.

A few chapters in and Jude's breathing slows, his mouth stops moving, and he's asleep. I gently ease him off me and to the side, rise to put the book back on the shelf and turn off the light before I snuggle back in with him and pull him close. Like my voice does to him, the sound of his gentle breathing quickly lulls me to sleep.

* * *

We sleep right up to dinner and don't even bother getting dressed before shuffling downstairs. I nip out quickly to grab the mail, and whip up a pasta dish when I get back inside. As we sit down to eat, Jude slurping noisily, I flick through the envelopes and sort them out. One from the hospital catches my eye, the name of Jude's hearing specialist stamped in the corner. With a nagging feeling in my gut, I set down my fork and use my untouched knife to slice the letter open.

A simple scan proves it to be nothing I haven't read before, and I roll my eyes in frustration, crumpling the paper slightly as I toss it back to the table-top. Jude raises an eyebrow at my behavior, nods to the letter and signs, "What?"

I sigh and hand it to him. He won't know all the words, but there are two that I'm sure will stand out to him. Sure enough, he drops it onto the table and starts signing in a fury.

"Am I getting one? Are you letting me get an implant?"

My face feels tight as I rub my hands over it, shaking my head in apology at my son.

"No, Jude," I tell him with a grimace. "You still can't get one."

He slams his utensils down so hard it rattles the whole table, sloshing the water around in our glasses.

"Why not?" he signs, anger in every line of his face. "Doctor L. says I should have gotten one two years ago!"

"Yes, well, Doctor Licameli isn't your father," I reply somewhat petulantly.

At this, Jude's eyes swim with frustrated tears. "Why not?" he repeats, and then signs it again.

I'm near tears, myself. I hadn't allowed Jude to get a cochlear implant when he was four because I'd been scared, and now I'm not letting him get one because it very well may be that my fear has made it too late for one to work at all.

"It might not work," I sign slowly to Jude, making sure he understands. "If you get the implant, it might not help very much at all, and you won't learn to talk. And then you won't even be able to use your hearing aid anymore."

Jude lets a few tears fall, signs, "But it _could_ work!" He emphasizes 'could' by taking his two fists in the sign for 'can' and jerking them down roughly. "It _could_ work, and I want to _hear_!"

I'm about to interrupt, to counter that yes, it could, but it might not live up to his expectations, when Jude makes it clear he isn't finished.

"I want to _hear_, and I want to _talk_," he signs jerkily, crying freely now, and I never can stand it when he cries; it always makes me cry, too, so I sit there with tears on my face and watch him have it out. "I don't care if it's just a little bit, or if it doesn't work, but at least we can _try_."

Jude pauses to sniff and wipe at his face before continuing. "I want to hear you say my name, and to hear Uncle Cooper tell his bad jokes and laugh at them even when no one else does."

That gets me to smile, however wobbly that smile might be, and Jude goes on.

"I want to say 'I love you, Daddy,' and hear you say it back," he says, and his sign for 'want' is getting more and more desperate, fingers clawing in towards his chest. "And I want to tell Mr. Kurt 'thank you' because he makes you happy, and to tell River that he's my best friend, but I can't _do_ any of that because I can't _hear_!"

I don't tell him anything, I don't try to placate him or promise him anything, I just calmly walk over and pull him out of his chair and into my arms. He shoves his face into my shoulder and cries; I can feel the fabric soaking with his tears, so I hold him tighter until he's calmed down. I leave our abandoned dinner on the table and walk us into the living room, settling down on the couch with Jude facing me on my lap. My hands frame his face, and they look enormous against his small features as my thumbs rub at the tears under his eyes.

When his hitched breathing has slowed down and his nose stops running, I kiss him on the forehead and sign, "I just need to be very, very clear," I tell him, watching his face as I sign, "that it _might not work._"

As expected, Jude squeezes his eyes shut in anger and tries to wiggle off my lap. I won't have that, so I grab his hands and sign 'open your eyes' over and over again while holding his hands until he complies.

"Listen," I implore him, "I'm not trying to be mean." Jude nods, and I take that as a good sign. "But even if it does work," Jude's eyes light up, "it won't be perfect. You still won't be able to hear like everybody else. You'll have to _learn _to hear, and it might be really, really hard."

Jude nods seriously. "I know," he signs, "but I really, really want to try."

I sigh, rub my face with a hand and lean further back into the couch.

"I'll set up an appointment with Doctor L.," I tell him, and the squeal comes high out of Jude's throat. He throws his skinny little arms around my neck and squeezes tight, making me laugh and try to pry him off.

"It's just a meeting," I remind him, and he's nodding and bouncing so furiously on my lap it's a wonder he can make out my signs at all. "He might not be able to do it for a few months."

But Jude's too far gone; he's closed his eyes and burrowed into my chest, his face pressed right up against my heart. With a sigh I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer, drop kisses into his hair until the emotion's worn off and he's loose and sleepy. He goes to bed with a smile on his face, and I can't help the little grin on my own as I clean up from dinner and wipe down the kitchen.

Later, after watching some news and the end of a Disney movie on cable, I make sure to leave a sticky note on my laptop with 'Dr. L.- C.I.' on it.

* * *

_**A/N: Once again thank you so, so much for the reviews, follows, etc., and thank you for reading.**_


	6. Hello Darling, Welcome Home

_A/N: Once again, everything after "-A Moment of Blaine-" is from Blaine's POV. The entire next chapter, or at least most of it, will be from his POV, as well._

* * *

The sound of a solid body hitting nylon mats resonates throughout the mostly empty gym.

"Come on, Squirt, you can do better than that," Cooper calls from where he sits between the boys atop a balance beam. He's holding a bag of gummy worms, and they each take turns nipping one out to munch on.

"Not too many," I remind River from where I'm crouching next to Blaine, and he pouts but doesn't reach in for another. Instead, Cooper takes the last three and stuffs them all into his mouth at once.

"I keep losing my grip," Blaine complains, standing up and slapping the grips wrapped around his hands together. He glares up at the high bar, scowls at it like cowing it will make him land his tricks. "After the release, I just can't get around fast enough."

"You'll get it, Blaine," I reassure him and move to stand just to the side of the apparatus in case he falls again. "Besides, it's not like you need to be competition-ready or anything."

"No," he grouches, leering at the bar again, "but I don't like to lose."

With a snort, I trot over to grab his waist and help him up to reach the bar, then take up my post again.

"You were better in High School," Cooper comments from the beam. It's just after the boys' regular morning practice on a Friday, so the coach is happy to lounge around his gym for a couple of extra hours with the promise of a long weekend ahead of him.

Blaine just grunts from the bar, kips up and swings straight into his short routine, but once again he can't quite get to the bar after his Tkatchev and he jolts to the floor. I manage to get under him a bit and grab his torso to keep his head from smacking into the mat, at least.

"Thanks," he mutters, untangling himself from my arms to stand, then offering me a hand up. "And I was better in High School," he shoots over to Cooper, "because I was seventeen and went to the gym every damn day. I have a job now, a son that I need to take care of. I'd practice more, but some things are more important."

Coop nods, but then he gets this little grin on his face. "You know, _I _have a job, too, and yet _I _still find time to practice every day."

I frown at him, unimpressed. "Because your job is _in a gym_," I bite back. "Not all of us have that luxury."

"Do you miss it?" River asks, looking between me and Blaine, his little legs swinging in the air. "Going to the gym all the time, do you miss it?"

Blaine starts unwinding his grips and moving over to the trio at the beam, and I follow.

"Sometimes," I admit. "And I could probably go more often, but then I wouldn't be able to spend as much time with you."

"Is that why you don't go?" Jude signs to his father before handing over the water bottle he'd been guarding. "You don't come here to practice so that I won't be alone?"

Blaine swigs at the water quickly before replying. "Well, yeah. I like coming here and working out, but I _love _hanging out with you. And I know we don't get to very much, because of my job, so I don't want anything else to take our time away."

Jude's face pulls into a thoughtful little frown. "But sometimes you leave me with Cooper to go have dinner with Kurt," he eventually signs.

_Oh, there it is, _I think to myself and try to swallow around the sudden ache in my throat, _there's my heart, right there on the floor. Hello._

Similarly, Blaine is gaping at his son like a fish out of water, and Cooper is trying valiantly to distract River with another bag of gummy worms, which I ignore in favor of the present matter. Jude, however, doesn't actually look _upset _about it, simply thoughtful.

"Do you-" Blaine clears his throat and shakes his head a little. "Do you not want me to see Kurt any more?" he finally asks, then rests his hands on the wooden beam on either side of the small boy.

Adamantly, Jude shakes his head. "No," he signs, and I try to keep my gasp of relief silent. "I just don't understand why you can't have dinner with me _and _Kurt. I don't like going to Uncle Cooper's for dinner. He can't cook."

"Hey!" Cooper grunts, then nudges Jude with his shoulder while signing a playful _'Jerk'_ at him, which Jude smiles at.

River hops down from the beam and offers around the bag of gummy worms that Cooper relinquished to him. "I don't mind it when you go out," he says, and signs one-handed as Blaine snags two little worms and hands one to Jude. I take the bag from him so he can use both his hands when he turns to speak directly to Jude. "Does _your _dad come home and smile and laugh a lot, too, after they go out?"

Jude grins and nods, makes a happy noise in his throat when he signs, "Yes! And does yours forget things, too? Once, after he picked me up from Uncle Cooper's, he put his laundry from the dryer back into the washer."

There's a knowing smile on Cooper's face that unnerves me just a little, but I'm blushing too hard to really pay him any mind. Blaine isn't faring any better, and he quickly nabs up Jude's hands to hold in his own to keep him from spilling more embarrassing secrets.

"Well," I cough, and my hands are a little sweaty when I raise them to sign to Jude, "I think the point of all this is that, when people are dating, they need to spend some time alone together so that they can talk a lot and get to know each other. But I would also like to get to know you better, too," I tell him, and he smiles. "So maybe we can all hang out, sometime?"

"I'm in," Cooper offers, gathering up his duffel bag of equipment. "Text me the details."

Blaine rolls his eyes at his older brother and picks Jude up off the beam, settling him on his hip. "You do realize it would be like a family-date, right?" He raises his eyebrows at Cooper, and I flush at what he's just implied so casually.

"Bro," Cooper scoffs, then spreads his arms wide in a gesture to indicate himself. "Brother. _Family_. If it's a family date, I'm so in. Your little summer bird here needs to see exactly what he's getting himself into."

Another eye-roll from Blaine, and I snicker as I help River sling his kit bag over his shoulder, and then hoist up my own backpack. The group of us starts moving toward the front of the gym, but just before Cooper leans on one of the glass doors to push it open, Jude flaps his hand at his dad and points at the community bulletin board hanging on the wall. Curious, Blaine moves closer so that Jude can point more specifically at a single, bright-blue flyer.

"Soccer?" Blaine asks, looking at his son in confusion.

Jude nods enthusiastically, signs '_fun_' and '_want_' and '_try_'.

"I used to play with some kids from our old apartment," River pipes up, and Blaine spins around so that he can repeat himself in sign to Jude. "It's _so_ much fun!"

At that Jude beams harder, points more vigorously at the flyer for the boys' community soccer team, and Blaine sighs. "We'll talk about it, okay?"

Once more we begin to move out of the building, pausing to let Cooper lock up, and then walk leisurely to our cars.

"Can I go if Jude does?" River asks, hopping along beside me and nearly tripping over his own feet. The boy is as elegant and graceful as the best of them when he's in the gym, but outside of it he's just an almost-five-year-old still growing into his body.

I'm wary about him taking on more sports- how much activity can his little body take? But I agree to think about it and make plans with Blaine to discuss the options over lunch the next day. We part in the lot, Andersons in one car, Hummels in another, and drive off in opposite directions for home.

* * *

"Thanks for coming with us," Blaine says, nudging his knee into mine as we sit on a pair of mildly uncomfortable waiting room chairs in the Otolaryngology suite at the hospital.

Blaine had called the Sunday after his talk with Jude and explained what had gone on. I'd just gotten back with Wes from the courthouse where, as promised, he'd helped me file an iron-clad restraining order against Henry- if that man comes within five hundred feet of either me or River, he goes straight to jail.

It's the following weekend now, the day after Blaine tried and failed to nail a Tkatchev, and the gym is getting ready to pick the competition teams for the first meet. Despite their talent and hard work, Jude and River most likely won't be competing this year. After the boys expressed interest in the local community soccer program, and after a very long talk between the four of us, we all decided to slow down their gymnastics training a bit. From now on they'll be at the gym three days a week, and at soccer practice for the other two. Even so, at this rate both boys should qualify for the Elite team by the time they turn eleven, and when asked, both had expressed unbridled determination to begin their Olympic training that year.

"They're five and six," Blaine had grumbled that afternoon after the discussion, sitting on my couch with his hands over his face. "You ask any other kid that age what they want when they're fourteen, and they shrug. You ask those two, and the answer's 'Olympic Gold'."

"At least they're driven?" I'd asked, moving to stand behind the couch and reaching down to rub at his tense shoulders. "Hey," I'd gone on, and nudged him until he'd leaned his head back to look up at me. "We're not forcing them to do this. They know that they can quit at any time, and no one will be mad. We're only supporting this so long as they want it, and they enjoy it. The very moment they stop having fun, we'll sit them down for another talk, yeah?"

He'd nodded, smiled, and let me work out the knots in his back.

"Although," I'd muttered a few moments later, "they aren't 'five and six' just yet, you know. Don't let them hear you saying they look older, it'll go straight to their heads."

And life goes on.

Today, the third Saturday of September, is the day of Jude's consultation with Doctor Licameli at the Children's Hospital. Jude's pending operation had been the hot topic of conversation after the big career discussion with the kids, and he's currently playing next to River at the the little train table in the corner.

"He looks so excited," I note, watching his tight black curls bounce around as he jogs to the other side of the table to lay more tracks. "_I'm _so excited." I look over to see Blaine biting his lip. "You're not so excited. Why aren't you excited?"

He sighs, raises our clasped hands to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckle before glancing out at the nurse's station. I love seeing him at the hospital, sometimes dressed smartly in pressed shirt and pants with a perfectly knotted tie and white coat, other times clad in a long-sleeved tee and brightly colored scrubs with his stethoscope curled around his neck. But I think this Blaine, the one sitting next to me, is my favorite: loose-but-fitted dark jeans, moderately stylish, yet comfortable, shoes, and a plain t-shirt with a soft cardigan or sweater over top. A relaxed, comfortable Blaine is my favorite Blaine.

But right now, he's not so relaxed.

"I'm still a little worried," he admits, his lips grazing the skin on the back of my hand.

"What about?" I gently urge him to continue.

He takes a moment to look around at the empty chairs, to watch River hand Jude the caboose to attach at the back of their train.

"I'm worried that he'll have a seizure during the procedure," he eventually breathes, "that he'll get sick from the anesthetic or that it won't go routinely. I'm worried that he'll change his mind when he wakes up, and that it won't have worked well enough to make a difference. And I'm worried because I can't be in there with him while he's getting it done."

Blaine leans forward, lets go of my hand and braces his elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands. I rub his back in large, soothing circles.

"Honey," I say gently, and wait for his grunt of confirmation to let me know that he's listening. "I'm not going to tell you that nothing's going to happen, because I just don't know," and Blaine mutters a sincere 'Thank you', "But I think, no matter if it works or doesn't, that Jude really needs this. He's nearly six, Blaine, but you and I both know he's a sharp kid. He's really thought about this. He's not going to be satisfied with his life until he's done everything he can to make it the _best_ life. And I know you want the same for him."

Blaine exhales a sharp breath. "He won't _need_ me anymore."

I can't help but scoff at this. "Remember how we said we liked how honest we are with each other?"His head raises a bit to look at me and he nods.

"Well I'm going to be honest right now. That was the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say."

Blaine's laugh is watery and tight, but he sits up and wipes his eyes. "Why do you say that?"

I roll my eyes at him. "How does he need you right now?"

The man shrugs, fiddles with his fingers in his lap. "He needs me to wake him up on time, to remind him to stay in the front yard because he can't hear the neighborhood cars. He needs me to interpret for him, to help him understand everything around him, and he won't need any of that anymore."

I nod. "Okay. Now, does River need _me_? He can hear, so does he _need_ me?"

It's Blaine's turn to scoff as he says, "Of course he does, you're his dad."

His eyes go wide for a second and I let that sink in.

"And you're Jude's dad," I state, gripping his arm firmly. "He'll still need you to love him, to remind him to brush his teeth and take a bath. And, if the implant works, he's going to need you to help him learn to _talk_, to _hear_, and he's going to be overwhelmed and probably a little scared and confused, and he's going to need _you _to tell him that everything's going to be okay."

Blaine sniffs and thumbs away the last of his tears. "You make very valid points."

"Of course I do."

A nurse looks up from the station and calls out, "Anderson!"

Blaine takes a deep breath before standing and going to retrieve Jude. He's halfway into the hall when he stops and turns around to look at me and River.

"You coming?" he asks, and I smile as the four of us crowd into the office.

* * *

Jude goes through a series of tests, some with his hearing aid in and some without, and the whole time Dr. Licameli is jotting things down in a folder. At the end of it, when we're gathered in his office and Jude is sitting nervously on Blaine's lap, he tells us that Jude is still a candidate for implantation.

The look on the kid's face is almost heartbreaking in its sincere joy.

"There's still a lot you're going to have to think about, though," the Otolaryngologist says, tamping down our joy momentarily. "I can pencil you in for as soon as next month, but if you're having any doubts, I strongly advise that you wait."

Blaine shakes his head and Jude beams. "No. We're good. This has been two years coming."

Doctor Licameli nods with a little smile. "Okay, then. This is the part where I run through the surgery, what to expect just after it, and how you're all going to have to adjust to living with an implanted child."

"All of us?" I ask, a little startled.

"I assume that you are an additional caretaker, yes?" he asks, though not unkindly. When I nod, he goes on, "Then yes. All of you. There are things you'll have to watch out for, things that could damage the internal piece and require another surgery to fix."

It's a lot to take in, as he spends the next half hour with charts and diagrams set up on his desk to show the insides of an ear and where the implant will go. He pulls out an implant to show us the thin silicone disk that will be attached to Jude's skull, and the electrode-lined wire that will be fed into his cochlea.

"Now this implant," he explains to his wide-eyed audience, holding up the device, "is the most reliable one so far. It's called the '_Nucleus Freedom_', and it's called that because the speech processor," he points to the bit that looks like a chunkier hearing aid, "is small enough to fit right in here. It used to be that people had to carry them around in packs on their hips or backs, but you don't need to worry about that."

"So he'll definitely still be able to do gymnastics and soccer, right?" Blaine asks worriedly. He's been trying to take everything in for himself while simultaneously relaying all the information to Jude, and he looks a little tired.

The doctor nods and pairs it with a shrug. "He can, yes, so long as he avoids head injuries."

"Even with all the flipping and stuff?" I inquire, scrunching my nose a bit. I have a vivid image of Jude executing a handspring and his external processor flying off and clocking another kid in the face.

Doctor Licameli laughs. "Even with the flipping. Here," he detaches the speech processor from the microphone and stands in front of Jude. He grabs a strange little clear tubing piece from his desk and fiddles it onto the processor before hooking it over Jude's ear. A moment later, he has Jude go over to the empty space near the door and do a cartwheel. Miraculously, the processor stays in place.

"That should work," Licameli says, unhooking the device from Jude's ear. "But if it doesn't, I've heard some people use wig tape to hold it down."

"Well alright then," Blaine says, amused. "How are you feeling, kiddo?" he turns to Jude.

The boy grins, signs, "I'm tired, but really happy. Thank you," and hugs his dad around the neck.

Dr. Licameli flips through a calendar book on his desk and stops at the third week of October. "How does the third Saturday sound? Nine a.m.?"

The details are put in place, the appointment goes in both mine and Blaine's phone calendars, and then we're shaking the specialist's hand and herding the kids out the door.

"How are you feeling now?" I ask Blaine, holding his left hand in my right as I pilot his Rolls Royce through the hospital parking lot.

He lets out a breath, glances back at Jude and River who are strapped into their booster seats with coloring books on their laps and a bin of crayons on the seat between them, and says with a shrug, "It was just a matter of time, really. He knows I'll support him through anything if he wants it enough."

I squeeze his hand and make for Quincy.

* * *

The following Tuesday, soccer practice gets rained out and leaves the Andersons stranded with River and me.

"This is crazy," Blaine says, peering out the front window at the sheets of rain smacking into the pavement.

"You've lived here longer than we have," I comment, passing him on my way to the hall with a roll of paper towels to mop up the entryway. "Shouldn't you be used to weather like this?"

He snorts and follows behind me, ripping a few sheets off the roll and crouching down beside me. "Is it too much to ask Mother Nature to print out a monthly schedule?"

I laugh and gather up the wet paper, standing to take it to the garbage in the kitchen. "You don't do too well with spontaneity, do you? I'll have to remember that: no surprise birthday or anniversary parties."

He gives a sheepish little grin and leans against a counter. "Outside of the hospital, where _nothing _runs on a schedule, I like to have a little surety in my plans. Those kids don't get sick on purpose, much less at anyone's convenience, and being in control of my own life helps me feel a little more in control of theirs."

My hand seeks his out, grips tight as I say, "You must be a wonderful doctor, Mr. Anderson."

"I try," he cheeks, leans in to press a kiss to my lips just before his phone starts going off in his pocket. He pulls it and checks it with a grimace. "Whoops, it's Cooper. Just a minute?"

I nod as he presses '_talk_' and leave him to his conversation. The boys have hunkered down in the living room with a deck of cards, cross-legged on the floor and facing each other. River has all the red ones, and Jude all the black, and each have constructed a small, wobbly little card wall in front of their knees with the rest either scattered on the floor, or being marched around by small hands.

"Consider your verdict!" River says, and signs it as, '_Think about your decision_', but Jude seems to understand, anyway. By now, he's seen the movie plenty of times to know what River is referencing.

I sense another tea party coming on, and interrupt them briefly to ask if they'd like to make dinner into an appropriate affair. The squeals and hugs I get are answer enough, and I wander back into the kitchen just in time to catch the tail end of Blaine's talk with Cooper.

"Sure, Coop, it's two-three-oh Everett Street. Yes, Quincy." Blaine looks up to see me in the door and waves me over to him. I lean against his side, rest my head on his shoulder and revel in the feel of his arm around my waist as he says, "See you in a bit," and hangs up.

"Is Cooper coming over?" I speculate, feeling him jostle me a bit as he slides his phone into his pocket and moves to wrap both arms around me.

He nods with his cheek pressed to my hair. "I forgot that he was going to hang out with us at the practice, and subsequently forgot to inform him of the change in plans. The rain's let up a bit, so he's coming to hang out here. Is that okay?"

"Of course," I assure him, pulling back to look Blaine in the eye. "I know you guys haven't been spending as much time together as you used to. Sorry about that."

"Not your fault," Blaine says with a fond shake of his head. "Cooper's a big boy, I'm sure he gets on just fine without me."

"Well," I muse. "How does he feel about tea parties?"

* * *

There are a couple of hours yet before dinner when Cooper arrives with a large brown paper bag and an enormous smile.

"Blaine texted me about this tea party," he explains, sliding out of his wet shoes and grimacing at the puddle he's left on the floor. I motion him inside and quickly clean up as he goes on. "So I stopped by the market and picked up a few things. My tea-party skills might be a little rusty, as the last one I attended was when this guy," he ruffles Blaine's hair as he passes his brother on his way to the kitchen, "was, like, eight. But he always insisted on Grandma's brownies, and we'd always make them together, so I thought it might be fun for the boys."

Blaine is grinning and rifling through the bag on the counter, pulling things out and lining them up. "Can we Kurt?" he asks, sparing me a glance before he takes down my measuring cups from an overhead cabinet. "I promise I'll clean up everything- kitchen _and _kids."

I frown at that. "Who says the kids are getting messy?"

"Have you ever baked with River?" Cooper asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

"Of course I have," I answer, and open another cupboard to pull down mine and River's matching white cooking aprons. "He's very good about it, too."

The brothers snort and chuckle at the aprons, and Blaine takes them out of my hands to return them to their shelf. "It would probably just be easier to have them out of their clothes entirely, but I bet I can guess your stance on undies-only baking."

"Your tone suggests you guess correctly," I intone, leveling the two with a glare. "Just what do you do that causes such a mess?"

I find out over the next half hour.

Blaine has convinced Jude and River out of their shirts, and I'd worry about them being cold if it weren't for the heat of the oven and the press of five bodies in one room. My kitchen isn't large, but is apparently big enough to host Anderson Baking Hour.

Everything goes swell at first: the kids are helpful and enthusiastic, and soon enough there is an enormous bowl of batter sitting on the counter, with two pans ready to be filled next to them. I frown in mild confusion as Blaine makes sure both kids wash their hands thoroughly, then watch in horror as Blaine lowers the bowl to the floor and sets the pans on either side. One boy sits beside each pan, and though River looks confused, Jude sports a curious expression of anticipation and smugness.

"Ready boys?" Cooper calls out from his perch on the island counter. "First to fill their pan wins! On the count of three: one…two…-"

I'm frozen, aghast, near the door, unable to move until Cooper begins to say "three".

"WAIT!" I cry out, finding my voice just before Cooper finishes, stopping four little hands mere inches above the batter bowl. My arms and hands are outstretched in the universal 'hold your horses' gesture, and I back out of the room while giving both adults the evil eye to ensure that my kitchen remains spotless until my return. They all watch in varying states of impatience as I retrieve this morning's newspaper and spread sheets of it along the floor, resettling the bowl and pans on top. Finished, I give Cooper a weary wave and a sigh that imply, "If you must," and he shouts, "THREE!"

The carnage is instant.

In moments, there are splatters of brown goo all over my kitchen. I whimper as it slings against my cabinets, and only remain in the room at all for River's delighted face and his, "Daddy, look!"s. The smile on my face is tight and strained as Cooper and Blaine cheer the two kids on, but River looks up at me with a handful of brownie batter ready to dump in his pan, and I think, _This is what a family looks like._

It doesn't take very long at all. The two boys have scooped most of the batter with their hands into the baking pans, and Cooper declares it a tie and a battle well-fought. Surprisingly, River has come out mostly unscathed, with just a few smears across his torso and a few splatters on his jeans. Jude, however, has managed to get several globs of it in his hair. They both giggle and watch Cooper slide the pans into the oven.

"I'll run him a bath?" I ask Blaine, and he nods happily and kisses my cheek.

"Thank you," he breathes into my ear just before he pulls away entirely. "I'm sorry about the mess; I know it's unconventional, but Grandma always insisted on it. She used to say that it was the fun that made the brownies taste good."

I smile at him and peck his batter-speckled nose. "I suppose I'll just have to get used to some things," I reply, and the smile bursts across Blaine's face. "Send River up after you wipe him down? I'll get Jude some of River's things."

He grins and agrees, ducks under the sink for cleaning supplies as I scoop Jude up and take him for a quick bath.

"Too hot?" I ask him, dashing his fingers into the water for a moment.

He shakes his head and signs, "Perfect."

I'm about to leave him to it, as River is just about a full-time solo bather, but I decide to check first. "Does your dad stay in with you, or do you do it yourself?"

"Alone," he signs, then reconsiders. "But leave the door open."

I nod and point out River's basket of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, set out a towel for him, and remind him to do his hair really well. He signs, "Thank you," and strips down to clamber in. I make sure he's settled before picking up his messy clothes and going in search of a temporary outfit. A quick pop back into the bathroom to leave him the change of clothes and check on him, and then River appears on the landing, batter-free and still a little flush with excitement.

_Hmm, _I think. _Maybe too flush?_

First things first, though, I get him changed into his pajamas and toss his dirty jeans with Jude's, then change my own clothes. He follows me downstairs as I take the little pile into the laundry room to toss in the washer, but leave the appliance open. Sure enough, Cooper needs pants and Blaine has managed to get his whole outfit dirty. I sit River on the couch and then drag the brothers upstairs to get them situated, and finally everyone is clean. Blaine finishes up Jude's bath while I start the laundry, and we all sniff appreciatively as the house fills with the smell of baking brownies.

The Andersons take charge of setting the table for our tea-party dinner, and I whisk River into the kitchen to check his temperature. He sits up on the counter as I hold the small device in his ear. He coughs once, and when I check the screen, he's got just the slightest fever.

"You feeling okay, buddy?" I ask him, and he nods.

"I feel fine, daddy," he assures me, but before I can ask him if he's positive, Blaine walks in.

"What's going on?" he asks, a little worried as he takes in the thermometer in my hand.

"He's got a little fever," I explain, showing him the screen. Blaine nods at it, touches his wrist to River's forehead and asks him if his tummy hurts. River again says no, so I let him down off the counter to go help Cooper and Jude at the table.

"Does he get excited like this a lot?" Blaine asks me and begins to assist with dinner preparations. We hear the television going on in the living room and assume Cooper's found something to watch with the kids.

"Not really," I say, putting together some simple sandwiches and bowls of mixed fruit. "When it's just us, he's actually a pretty calm kid. Though, with everything that's been happening I guess he's been more excitable than usual."

Blaine listens and fills the kettle with water. "It's probably just from the excitement, then, and probably also from the new sport practices. He's not used to the new workload yet, so he'll need some time to adjust. If it hasn't gone down in a few hours, give him some Tylenol."

I smile and bump my hip into his as we wait for the water to boil, the sandwiches and fruit ready on the island to be taken in to the dining room. "Thanks, doc. I might just keep you around."

He gives a sarcastic laugh before kissing my forehead.

The tea-party dinner goes fantastically, with Cooper getting a long lecture from River on etiquette, and then a tirade when he misquotes a line from _Alice_. Brownies follow clean-up, an assembly-line of dishes that go from table to sink to towel to cabinet, and, of course, a screening of _Alice in Wonderland_ comes last, but not before I switch the load of wet clothes into the dryer. Somewhere just after Alice meets the Caterpillar, I notice Blaine checking River's forehead for a temperature. He shakes his head and smiles when I shoot him a worried look, then return to the film. By the trial, Jude has fallen asleep against my side where we sit on the floor, my back leaning on Blaine's shins, and River between him and Cooper on the sofa.

The credits roll and Blaine eases out from behind me, crouches down next to me and runs the gentlest of hands through Jude's wild curls.

"I don't want to wake him," Blaine whispers mournfully, yet still moves to jostle a little shoulder.

I reach out and stop him with a hushed, "Wait." Biting my lip, I nod towards the stairs. "Why don't you guys stay here?" I offer, as Cooper stretches before moving to peer out the front window.

"The rain's not so bad," he reports, turning with a shrug, "but there's a lot of water on the road."

Sure enough, when I flip the television to the weather channel, the ticker tape at the bottom spells out numerous flooding warnings and cautions everyone to stay off the roads.

"Sleepover?" River mumbles, leaning forward until his head rests atop mine.

I glance up at Blaine, who smiles and nods. "Sleepover."

We end up rousing Jude, anyway, when it's clear he isn't nearly as cooperative in sleep as he is awake, and Blaine's attempts at dressing him in a set of River's spare pajamas prove disastrous when the boy nearly brains himself on a bed post. Eventually, though, he's tucked in with an equally drowsy River, and they both offer half-hearted "Goodnight"s in the dim glow of the nightlight.

At first I suggest that both Andersons camp out in the guest room, but furious head-shaking from Blaine incites a hushed discussion in the hall while the elder Anderson occupies the bathroom.

"I'll sleep on the floor if you want me to," Blaine whispers a little desperately, "but _please _don't make me share with Cooper, _please_."

I'm confused and a little dubious when I ask, "Why not?"

Blaine shudders, says, "He kicks, he sings, he performs interpretive dances, and I won't sleep at _all_ if I'm in there with him."

"He sings?" I wonder. "In his sleep?"

"And recites lines from acting gigs he took in college," Blaine says with a long-suffering sigh and a sage nod.

"Well," I say and tug at his hand to move us toward my bedroom door. "We can't have you losing sleep like that, can we?"

He exhales in relief and squeezes my hand gratefully. "_Thank you_," he breathes, and turns me around by the hand to rest his forehead against mine.

"And there's really no need to sleep on the floor," I tell him, kiss his nose to make him smile. "My bed's big enough for three, so there's plenty of room for you. So long as you're not…_expecting _anything."

Blaine giggles at that, nudges his nose off mine. "With two kids down the hall and my big brother right next door? Even if we were at the intimate stage, _never _under these circumstances."

I laugh at that and pull away to get ready for bed. Blaine gets a pair of sweats to change into, leaving his borrowed jeans draped over the chair at my vanity while I change in the bathroom. Unable to leave things undone before bed, I nip downstairs and drag out the freshly cleaned and dried clothes from the machine and toss them onto my bed to fold and sort so the Andersons can have their own clothes come morning. Blaine helps and pops over to the guest room to leave Cooper's pants at the foot of the bed, but leaves Jude's with his own on the armchair by my window.

"Which side?" I ask gesturing at the bed when everything's sorted and the sheets have been turned down.

"You first," Blaine grins, and I roll my eyes and clamber in on the right. Blaine happily jumps up on the opposite side and snuggles in; I can feel his bare toes tickling my feet, and I gently nudge at them with my own.

"Thanks for dinner," he whispers, and the bedside lamp makes his skin look even darker, makes the shadows on his face longer, and it would be a scarier sight if the man were half as beautiful. Instead, it simply makes him glow.

I shrug a little, turn on my side to face him more fully. "It was no trouble, really," I begin, then smile wryly. "Well, except for the _trouble _of having my kitchen repainted with brownie batter."

Blaine's shy grin grows slowly across his face, and he tries to hid it in his pillow. "I'm sorry," he mumbles into the fabric. "Coop and I used to do that all the time when we were kids, and I may have gotten a little carried away."

"It's fine," I assure him. "But a little warning next time, hmm?"

He nods fervently, leans forward to kiss me quick then lays back down. "Still," he whispers, raises a hand to trail soft fingertips down my cheek, "I had a marvelous time tonight."

I hum in agreement, close my eyes at the simplicity of the moment and bask in it. "I think Jude had a good idea the other day. I love going on dates with you, but I also love goofing around the house with you and the kids. And by 'kids' I mean Cooper, too."

Blaine sniggers and I open my eyes to catch his smile. "There's only so much Cooper I can handle," he admits, snuggles down a bit further into the blankets.

My teeth push forward to gnaw worriedly at my lower lip for a brief moment. "What you said, at the gym the other day- you said that all of us hanging out was like a 'family-date'. What did you mean by that?"

Blaine looks startled, but it passes quickly and his face settles into a fond smile. "I meant," he breathes into the space between us, cups my face in his hand and gently runs his thumb along my lips, "that I care very, very much for you and your son, Kurt. And no matter if we're together for the rest of our lives, or just for the summer, you and River will always be family to me. I don't let go of people I care about very easily, I hope you know that."

"I do," I whisper. "I'm kind of the same way."

His smile is radiant as he leans in once more to kiss my lips, then my cheek, then takes his hand back and relaxes into the mattress. "It's nice to know we're on the same page."

"Yes it is," I agree, reaching over him to flick the small lamp on the bedside table off. "And, just so you know," I tell him when he reaches for me in the dark and pulls me to rest against him, "if or when we do actually, you know, _sleep together_, I want you to be absolutely sure of us. Because, to me, it's not just sex. It's a promise. A commitment. So I want you to know what you'd be getting yourself into."

Blaine hums against my hair, tightens his arm around my waist. "That, my dear," he whispers down to me, "is a promise I will be honored to make one day."

Then we sleep, and wake in the morning tangled and warm and shy, share slow kisses until Cooper complains he's hungry and the boys demand our attention. I make pancakes in a sunny kitchen, helped by a bright-eyed Jude, and listen to Blaine playing hand games with River while Cooper sneaks strips of bacon.

_Family_.

* * *

_-A Moment of Blaine-_

I whistle on my way into the hospital Wednesday morning.

Waking up with Kurt had been the most inspiring thing to happen to me since the day Jude was born, wrinkled and red and covered in amniotic fluids, wailing in my arms like he couldn't believe what kind of life he'd just been thrust into. Waking up with Kurt was slow; it was kisses to clothed shoulders and trembling hands on flushed cheeks, cold toes pressing against warm calves and speeding hearts fueled by the deepest of breaths.

"Good morning, Doctor Anderson," Liza, the front desk nurse, greets as I very nearly skip through the automatic doors.

"And a good morning it is," I reply, giddy and happy, and I'm sure they've waxed the floors because I seem to be gliding rather than walking.

She raises an eyebrow at me, blows at her long blond bangs to get them out of her face. "I'd ask what kind of night you had," she says with a smirk, "but I know you wouldn't part with any gory details. So I'll just say 'congratulations'."

I laugh and continue on toward the elevators. "Have a wonderful day, Liza."

"If you end up floating off and getting stuck on the ceiling of the atrium, I'm not sure the janitor has a long enough ladder."

The elevator _ping_s and the doors slide open, but as I step in I call back to the desk, "The janitor loves me, I'm sure he could scrounge one up," and the doors close on her laughter.

_Yes_, I think, watching the numbers along the panel light up as the box moves, _today is going to be a good day._

And it is.

No one crashes. Every child under my care is stable, and no one throws up on me. Which wouldn't matter too much as I'd tossed on a set of dark blue scrubs and a soft, white, long-sleeved t-shirt underneath. But the grey Converse shoes I'm wearing are my favorites; my most comfortable pair, and it would take me _ages _to wear a new pair down properly.

"And how are we doing, Miss Julia?" I say as I poke my head into a room with bright orange walls, halfway through my afternoon rounds.

The little girl in the bed smiles up at me and holds out a Cinderella coloring page that's been filled in so neatly and precisely, it's hard to believe she's only six. Most six-year-olds are simply too impatient, but Julia is the calmest child I've ever come across in my career or personal life.

"That's beautiful!" I exclaim, and Julia's mother beams from the corner where she sits in a padded chair.

"I drew it for you," the girl says, her voice small and a little weak, but clear. "You said your favorite color's blue, so I thought you'd like Cinderella the best."

With gentle hands I take the page from her and sit on the edge of her bed to admire it. "I do love blue, you're right," I remark, looking over it once more. She's even written her name in the bottom right-hand corner, shaky and in all-capitals, but perfectly legible. "You've a gift with crayons, my dear," I sing at her, and she giggles.

The check goes smoothly; the new medicines seem to be working for her, as her seizure activity has decreased dramatically. She'll get to go home soon enough. I thank her again for the drawing, and she promises to color me another before she leaves.

Rounds go quickly, as it's mostly routine, and soon enough I'm at the nurse's station filling out the last few patient reports. Just as I finish off the last one and flip the file closed to hand to the head nurse, there's a small commotion at the elevator bank. Liza spills out of one, catches herself on the wall, then jogs over to me.

"Liza? What's going on?" I ask, deeply troubled by the frown on her face and the lines carving her forehead. But before she can speak, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

"Excuse me," I grimace at her in apology and dig out my phone, confused at the unfamiliar number, but I answer it anyway. "Hello?"

A short pause, then, "Blaine?"

I frown. "Yes. Who is this?"

"It's Jaime. Jaime Morris."

My eyebrows raise dramatically in surprise, and I wave off Liza's frantic gesturing. "How did you get this number, Jaime? I told you when I left your brother that I didn't want to hear from either of you."

There's a deep sigh on the other end, and the sound of steady, rhythmic beeping. "I know, I do, I know," he says, and he sounds _exhausted_. The kind of bone-deep tired that can't be shaken off. "But he hasn't got much time, and he wants to see you. He wants to see Jude."

I'm too shocked to respond, there's no sound in my throat, my lungs aren't expanding properly, and before I can even sort my self out enough to reply, there's a choked-off gasp from the other end as the beeping turns frantic, a hushed "_Oh god_," and the line goes dead.

My arm lowers slowly as I look around at Liza, who's looking more frazzled than she did a minute ago. I swallow, then do it again, and manage to say, "What, Liza?"

She looks apologetic, like she'd done something wrong, when she says, "It's Paul. He's downstairs."

I don't feel my phone slip through my sweaty fingers.

I don't hear it crack against the tile floor.

There's a rushing in my ears.

And then there's nothing.

* * *

_A/N: Again, thank you so much for reading and commenting. Reminder that next chapter should be mostly (if not all) from Blaine's point-of-view._


	7. I Want to Tell You This Story-

Kurt walks briskly up and down the aisles of the store with a basket on his arm, yanks bolts of fabric from between others to run his hands over the cloth and then, if it's not what he's looking for, shoves it back in. His jaw is set in determination, and it's all I can do to herd the boys along behind him fast enough.

"Is he always like this?" I lean down to whisper to River.

He nods, skips a few steps ahead, "Oh, yes. Except it's worse when he takes me shopping for actual clothes."

I feel myself pale a little. "It gets _worse_?"

"Hey!" Kurt barks from the end of the aisle. "Why are you all the way over there? We've got so much to find, come on!"

With a sigh, and a shrug from Jude, we troop along after him.

"Are you going to have enough time to make these?" I wonder aloud as Kurt fingers a high-quality cotton fabric in a pale shade of blue.

"I should," he says, and slides the bolt from the shelf, pushes it into my arms. "Three and a half yards, please."

With a fond eye-roll, River and I take the bolt over to the counter to wait for someone to cut the appropriate amount of cloth for Kurt. This is how it's gone all morning: Kurt's been working methodically from one end of the store to the other, and when he finds what he needs, he sends me and one of the kids to get it cut so we don't have to carry around heavy stacks of fabric while he searches for other items on his list.

And it's a _long _list.

He's brought his sketches, too, to match accessories like buttons and zippers, and little gold and silver chains, ribbons and trims. His drawings are incredible: costumes for Halloween, all of us dressed in _Alice in Wonderland_, with River taking dibs on the Hatter, "Because I already have the hat!"

The woman behind the counter waves me forward, and I smile a little sheepishly at her when she gives me a searching look.

"This is the fourth time you've been up here," she comments, unrolling the fabric a bit.

"Yes, well, he has a system," I laugh, with a nod in Kurt's direction. "Three and a half yards, please."

"Halloween?" she guesses correctly, slides the fabric along the counter to line up with the ruler at the bottom edge.

"I'm gonna be the Mad Hatter!" River pipes up, his nose barely coming up level with counter.

The woman chuckles, carefully snips the blue cotton straight down after she marks the right length. "I'm sure you'll be a wonderful Hatter. Is your dad the one over there terrorizing the poor, helpless fabrics?"

River giggles and nods, says, "He's making all of our costumes."

"Wow," she whistles, impressed, folding the cut fabric and handing it over with a little slip of paper. "Well," she says to me, "I hope your husband can get all that done in time, with only two and a half weeks."

Something swoops low in my belly and then rises to settle deep in my chest at her words, and it's such an achingly _good _feeling that I don't bother to correct her. "He said he's good for it, so we'll see," I respond, voice a little thick but I don't think she notices. "Uhm, I should get over there, but I'll probably be back in a few minutes."

She waves us off with a cheery smile, and River takes my free hand in his much smaller one.

"Why did she call my dad your husband?" he asks, swinging our clasped hands between us as we turn down an aisle. "You're not married."

I shake my head. "No. She just made a mistake."

He hops a little and nods. "Do you _want _to marry my dad?"

It throws me off in a strange, lurching, pleasant way. A simple question posed by a young child, yet I can't think of a simple answer to it. I've already admitted to Kurt that I feel our relationship is going to last a good long while, but _marriage_?

After everything with Paul, the idea of marrying again is a little unsettling. After all, the wedding marked the downward spiral of our relationship, culminating in his rendering Jude deaf, and me filing for divorce. An irrational fear, I know, Kurt is not Paul, could never _be_ Paul, but it's there all the same.

"Not yet, buddy," I answer honestly, and it's really all I can say.

He stops walking, jolts me a bit when my hand tugs on his and he doesn't move, and I turn around to face him.

"Are you going to leave him, then? Are you going to leave _us_?" he worries, nibbles on his lip the same way his dad does. It must be a Hummel trait.

I kneel down to get on his level, look him square in the eye and assure him, "I will not ever leave you, River Hummel. Not ever. And I can't promise that your dad and I will stay together forever, but I will _always _be there for you, no matter what happens. Okay?"

He seems mollified, starts walking again, anyway, but I can tell it won't be the last time he asks something like that. I'll have to make sure to head Kurt off about it before River blindsides him, asking if we're breaking up.

"There you are," Kurt breathes as River and I catch him up. He hands me three bolts this time, two-toned purple cotton stripes and a much deeper aubergine panné velvet, followed by a rich cream silk twill for lining. He points to the stripes, "Two yards," the velvet, "one and a half yards," and the silk, "three yards."

I glance dubiously at the pile. "Kurt," I start gently, "isn't this a little much for Halloween costumes? I mean, I think it's great you're doing this for us, but this is a lot of money for one night."

Kurt shrugs, consults his list and sketches again for color swatches as River and Jude step across the way to peer into a bin of fuzzy yarn. "I've got some hefty savings," he says, moving down the aisle a little. "And I've actually been meaning to make these for the past year or so, anyway. At least, mine and River's. You know how much he loves it all, and imagine how excited he'll be when we can sit down to tea, in costume, and act out the scene properly."

"I understand," I agree, but continue. "But I guess I'm just not sure how lasting they'll be. He won't fit into it forever, and he might grow out of his interest."

Kurt shoots a smile at me, a little knowing grin. "Mister Anderson, so practical," he hums, checks tags on bolts of linen. "Yes, they may not have a terribly long show-life, but I'll be able to use some of the pieces from mine in my formal-wear, as will you with yours, and when Rivers grows out of his I'll hang it up with my other creations and add it to my book of designs . Maybe someday it'll help me land the designing job I've always wanted."

That startles me, but Kurt doesn't notice as he's rounded up the boys and moved over to the next row of fabric. I scramble after him, three heavy stacks still in my arms that I jostle around to get a better hold on.

"You want to be a designer?" I ask a little dumbly. "But you're a writer!"

That gets me a grim smile and a scoff. "Apparently I'm a better writer than designer, as that one ended up paying me."

"But Kurt," I continue, still struggling with the fabrics that are now slipping all over the place and unwinding from their cardboard spools. "I saw your drawings, they're amazing! You could _so _be a designer."

His face softens, smile evening out into something genuine and heartfelt as he takes pity on me and grabs the top bolt from the pile in my arms and re-wraps the fabric properly.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," he says, straightening out the other two bolts, as well, and re-stacking them in my arms. "And maybe someday I will. But not right now." He points to each bolt in turn as he says again, "Two, one and a half, three."

Dismissed, I kiss his cheek and head over to the cutting counter solo this time, glad that it's the middle of a weekday- soccer practice cancelled as a high school football team needed the field- and the store is emptier for it. I get his fabrics sorted quickly, and we spend another couple of hours in the store collecting everything he needs. It's a well-planned, systematic shopping trip, save for the unscheduled stop at the wall of fleece where Kurt runs his hands over some of the softest, dark-green fabric and, after a quick glance at the boys, takes down that bolt, and a similar color in a different weave and hauls them to the counter. He comes back with a large cut of each, and a small bag of something from the tidbits aisle that I can't get a proper glimpse at before he's shoved it all in a basket. He then turns and dashes for another row, returns with two large bags of poly-fiberfill stuffing and ropes the boys into carrying one each.

At the end of it we have three baskets overflowing with fabric, and one filled to the brim with buttons and thread and everything else. The total on the machine at the check-out makes me cringe, which Kurt laughs at.

"You're a money-bags, too, Top Neurologist," Kurt reminds me, hands Jude and River a lighter bag each, and scoops up a few of the remaining ones. I grab the last two and follow them out of the store.

"Yes, but I've never spent quite that much money in one sitting," I argue. Then, at his pointed look at my car, amend, "Except on my car. Or my house. Or Jude's gym stuff."

He laughs and stuffs the bags into the back of my Rolls before easing the hatch shut reverently. It still amuses me how gently he touches the car, like it'll purr if he scratches the right place, or bite him if he pats it too hard.

We end up back at the Hummel house for a late lunch, as shopping took up the morning and then some, and then set River and Jude down at their workbooks. They're doing science today, and I offer to take it over so that Kurt can sort out his treasure haul in the dining room in peace. He thanks me with a thorough kiss and lugs the mountain of bags through the kitchen door.

It's another one of those homey afternoons that make me sit back in my chair and marvel at my life. A child of my own, and another that is as good as, with a partner that knows me nearly as well as I know myself. It's a heady feeling, powerful, like everything could happen, and all at once, too, and I could come out of it all unscathed. Victorious.

_Euphoric_.

I shake my head to clear it and focus on the question River's asking me. It's still a bit too early to be thinking like that, like there's four of us and one bank account, two cars, three bedrooms, one nursery…

* * *

"Are you going to see him?" Kurt asks at the weekend, the both of us sitting outside the hospital on a bench in the courtyard, containers of salad open on our laps as we enjoy the early fall weather.

I poke at my leaves, nudge a tomato around in a spill of dressing then stab at it. "I don't know." I've managed not to think too hard about Paul the last few days, except for the brief explanation to Kurt after he received a phone call from Liza concerning my fainting next to the nurse's station. Really, I'd only blacked out for seven seconds, she'd counted, but she wouldn't let me leave until I'd drunk a juice box and had Kurt come collect me. I'd told him then about Paul, and haven't mentioned him since.

He's silent for another moment, takes a few bites and swallows carefully before speaking again. "How long does he have?"

The tomato dies valiantly, laid to rest with his brethren in the fiery, acidic depths of my stomach. "Maybe a week. Maybe less."

"He's at Massachusetts General, right?" and at my nod he then asks, "What was he doing here?"

My grip on the fork tightens a bit. "He got cleared to leave for the day with his brother," I explain, more staring at my salad now than even pretending to eat it. "He was wearing a portable heart monitor when he came to see me, and it started going crazy when I was on the phone with Jamie. He crashed in the waiting room downstairs."

There's a silence; we watch some of the trees swaying lightly with the softest of breezes, and Kurt reaches over to grip my knee in support and comfort.

"I think you should see him," he says, and it shocks the fork out of my hand and onto the grass where I stare at it, not quite sure how it got all the way down there when a moment ago it was being gripped by my fingers.

Kurt huffs, picks up the plastic utensil and chucks it in the garbage bin a few feet to his right. He takes another bite of his salad, then hands me his fork.

"I know it won't fix anything, or make anything better," he goes on while I tuck a few spinach leaves onto the tines and munch them down, "but I think it might give him some closure."

I mull it over, relinquish the fork when Kurt tugs at it so he can eat a bit more, then finally say, "I'll see him today. Then I'll decide if he can see Jude."

Kurt hums in agreement, and we finish lunch in companionable silence until he has to go collect the boys from the gym and get them started on their schoolwork.

"See you later," Kurt smiles, leans in for a goodbye kiss before standing and shouldering his satchel. I nab his hand quick and give it a squeeze.

"See you later."

He beams and turns to head for the visitor's lot.

* * *

I should have been at Kurt's almost an hour ago.

He'd told me to take my time, not to worry about Jude, but there's a twisting in my stomach that stems partly from not being with my son when I should be, and partly from the supine figure on the single bed I can see through the room's window.

I'm standing in a hall in the Corrigan Minehan Heart Center, one arm crossed over my chest and the other hand raised to my mouth, thumb nail between my teeth, as I peer through the observation window into Paul Morris' room.

He looks awful.

Tubes trail from his chest; some are monitor lines, some are internal. All of them are terrifying. Jaime sits next to the bed, turned toward the head with his back slightly to me. But I can see Paul's face, skin stretched thin over sharp bones, and he looks about half the size he was when I left him. He's asleep now, and I've been debating since I arrived, straight from my shift at Boston Children's and still dressed in pink scrubs, whether or not to go in now, or wait until he wakes up.

My decision is stolen from me when he startles awake within the room, coughs violently for a moment until Jaime can fit an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, then settles back into the bed and turns his eyes to look directly at me.

His heart monitor stutters for a beat from the surprise, and with the largest inhale I can manage, I grip the doorknob in a sweaty hand and turn it.

"You made it," Jaime breathes when I step inside, leaving the door wide open.

All I do is nod. I don't go further in, I stay right there, the open door to one side of me and the in-hospital phone to the other. Paul glances up, takes in all of me, and reaches up a trembling hand to tug away the face mask.

"Blaine," he gasps, replaces the mask for a few seconds, pulls it away again with a tight smile, "How are you still so beautiful?"

I shake my head, stare at the floor a bit then meet his eyes. "I'm not beautiful," I mumble, then a little louder, "I'm not."

Paul breathes as deep as he can into the mask then shoves it down to rest under his chin. "I'm sorry, Blaine," he chokes, coughs, catches his breath. "I'm so sorry."

He starts crying in earnest, leans to his side against his mountain of pillows propping him up, and Jaime flutters his hands around like he wants to help but has no idea how. Instead, he leans back in his chair again and runs those shaky hands through his thick blond hair, green eyes as wet as his brother's.

"Shh," I placate, and finally detach myself from the wall. "Please don't cry, Paul, it's alright, don't cry."

The man sniffs, wipes his face with a tissue from the bedside table and tosses it in the garbage standing on the other side of his bed. His sharp face is swollen a bit, his dark hair cur short and severe, and I can hardly reconcile him with the man I once shared house with. His gaze darts around the room, searching for something that isn't there, until he refocuses on me.

"Where's Jude?" he asks, disbelief coloring his tone.

I shake my head again, still not daring to come within reach of the bed. "He's at school," I say, then amend, "sort of. He's home-schooled. He's with my partner, who teaches him and his own son."

Paul's face falls into a pained grimace. "Partner?"

I scuff my toes against the tile floor, trace other black scuff marks left by squealing hospital bed wheels on the way to one emergency room or another. "Yes. I met him at the gym where Jude does gymnastics now."

He's quiet for a long minute, and Jamie silently makes him breathe into the oxygen mask again until he's gathered his thoughts and nudges it off.

"Gymnastics?" he finally asks, and his face relaxes once more.

"Yes," I confirm. "He's almost six, now, but he's as good as the nine-year-olds."

Paul chuckles, deep and throaty, which turns into a small coughing fit and has Jamie wielding the mask once more.

"Always knew he'd grow up well," he says when he's caught his breath back and his chest isn't moving quite so rapidly anymore. "Like you."

That gets a laugh from me, a quick huff more exhale than humor. "Not like me," I correct him. "_Better_ than me. He deserves _everything_."

It falls quiet in the little room, save for the various hums and whirs and beeps emanating from all of Paul's machines and monitors. I look at Jamie, but he's staring at the floor, elbows resting on his knees and head in his hands, the very picture of a world-weary man. A rustling from the bed catches my attention again and I turn to see Paul's hand extended toward me, palm up, in a silent question.

_One more time? Just once more, one more time before I die?_

Jamie's looked up, too, flicks his eyes between the two of us like the room is filled with flammable gas and this could be the spark that ignites it all. Steeling myself, I reach a tentative hand forward, graze the very tips of my fingers over the tips of his, then draw my hand back quickly. Paul gasps, retracts his hand, and I look anywhere but at him, feeling a pressure behind my eyes.

"I want to see Jude," he says, husky and low; there's a threat somewhere behind the words that I can't quite read.

I'm shaking my head but he starts talking again, an edge-of-panic, "I just want to see him. I have that right, he's my kid, too, so let me see him."

"No," I breathe, cross my arms firmly over my chest and plant my feet solidly against the ground. "No, don't pull that, he's _not _your kid, he's _mine_!"

Paul gets visibly agitated at that, clenches his jaw and curls his fingers into fists. "I just want to see him, Blaine," he warns. "I want to apologize to him, tell him I'm sorry and that I wish things were different."

"Wishing won't change anything," I spit out. "And Jude might forgive you, but I don't, and you don't deserve his forgiveness, anyway. You don't deserve _him_."

"Jesus, _fuck_," Paul grinds out through his teeth, and Jaime hesitantly grips his arm where it lies on the bed. "I screwed up, Blaine!" he very nearly shouts. "I screwed up, and now you're, what, _punishing_ me?"

There are words somewhere in my throat, but I can't remember how they're supposed to get out.

"You've been _punishing _me since you left," he growls, tosses his head back into his pillows. "You took _everything _from me, Blaine, you took _everything_." Then, after a few tense beats of silence, "You're a _bitch_."

The pressure behind my eyes gets worse; I can feel the wetness gathering and valiantly look up to the ceiling to delay it.

But Paul isn't finished.

"You're such a _bitch_!" he says, then his voice raises to a definite shout, "_I want to see my kid! _I'm his father, too, and I _want to see him!_"

The words snap in my throat, spill out in a torrent, "He's _not _your kid!" I shout right back, and Jaime looks equal parts fed up and terrified. "He's _not _your kid, because he has another dad. He's got another dad now, who takes care of him, who loves him with his whole heart. And he's got a brother, too, and an Uncle that's been there for him through _everything_. He's _not. your. son._"

"_I WANT TO SEE MY KID_," comes the bellow, and one machine starts wailing out a rhythmic siren.

"Jesus, Paul, stop it!" Jaime grunts, yells, "Nurse!"

I'm standing there, dumb with it all, a hand to my forehead and a few hot tears on my cheeks as a nurse comes in and tries to calm Paul down. He's still screaming at me, keeps screaming at me even as I turn and bolt through the open door, keeps screaming as I run down the hall and stab at elevator buttons.

Keeps screaming until the doors shut behind me, and then the only screaming I hear is happening inside my own head.

* * *

I run out to my car, parked in the very back of the lot under a large tree, and lean against the driver's side door. I fold my arms along the top, rest my head against them, and stay there until my tears run out and all the red's gone from my cheeks.

As I'm fumbling around in my pockets for my keys, my phone buzzes with a new text. It's not from Kurt, like I expect, but rather from Jaime.

_ He's only got a few days left, Blaine. He can't hurt you anymore. Let him die in peace. Please. –Jaime_

I shut off my phone, climb into the car, and drive slowly down to Quincy.

* * *

I spend the evening in Kurt's bed, curled up against his pillows and repeating '_It's over, it's over, it's all over_,' while he fixes dinner downstairs with the boys. And it's not until Jude comes to tell me the food's ready that I move at all, shifting slowly and hearing my bones creak in protest until I'm sitting on the edge of the bed and Jude is standing in front of me looking worried.

"I'll tell you about it later," I promise him, and I do.

I'm only allowed to leave Kurt's house after a long, bracing hug and the most tender, supportive kiss I've ever received. Being with Paul today, hearing him talk like he had any part in raising Jude, made all the pieces of my heart slide right in together in the sudden knowledge that it's _Kurt_. It's always been Kurt, and it always will be Kurt. Paul was merely the facilitator that allowed me to meet Kurt, and I suppose I have to thank the bastard for that.

I won't tell him. Not yet.

But soon.

Jude and I travel home in silence, as usual. There's no point in playing music when one of us can't hear it, and the other isn't in the mood for it, anyway.

Bedtime routines are always something I can count on. The system never wavers, for which I'm grateful. Jude goes straight upstairs for his bath, though I'm trying to get him switched over to showers, and then we curl up on the couch in the living room, a cookie apiece, and talk. Usually these talks are lighthearted, '_This is what I did today,_' affairs.

Not this one.

We spend a while on the couch tonight. I tell him about Paul, how sick he is and what happened when Jude was a baby. And when he asks the inevitable, I answer him, "Yes, I did love him once." From there it turns into reminiscing; I tell Jude about what it was like in college, tell him funny stories of myself and Cooper growing up. When I tell him about the day he was born, his eyes go bright and he crawls over to sit in my lap while I make sure he understands that he has always, _always_ been loved.

"Do you love Kurt?" he asks innocently, after he's tucked into bed and his hearing aid is out and on his nightstand.

"Can you keep a secret?" I reply, turning to sit on the edge of the bed facing him. When he nods, I grin and sign, "Yes, I do love him."

Jude laughs happily, high-pitched and too loud, and claps his hands in delight. "I love him, too!" he signs quickly. "Are we all gonna live together, now? Can Kurt and River come live here with us?"

I shake my head fondly at him, gently straighten his pillows and blankets that he'd mussed in his excitement.

"Not yet," I respond slowly, meaningfully. "Remember, it's a secret right now. I'll tell him after your implant surgery, so you can hear it, too, okay?"

Jude beams even harder, reaches his arms out for a firm hug, then snuggles under his blankets.

"I love you, daddy," he signs, yawning.

"Love you, too," I tell him, ruffle his curls, then slip out of the room.

* * *

The next morning, I swing by Massachusetts General before work and head up to the Heart Ward. Somethings' happening in Paul's room, his blood pressure took a dive, I think, but there are doctors in there and they stabilize him as I watch. A nurse comes over and suggests I come back another time, and I nod, pulling out a stiff piece of paper from my jacket pocket.

"Can you give him this?" I ask her, and hand her the photo. "When he wakes up? And make sure he sees it?"

She smiles down at the photo in her hands, Jude sitting atop the castle at the playground, and assures me she will.

I thank her, turn, and leave.

* * *

Two days later, I open the newspaper to the back and stare at the page for a while before pulling Jude into my lap and pointing out Paul's picture on the page.

"_Paul Morris died in his sleep after a long illness."_

"He's gone now?" Jude asks. "And he won't come back?"

I shake my head. "No," I sign, closing the newspaper. "He won't come back."

* * *

"Mr. Blaine," River jogs up to me from the den where he and Jude have been reading. "Where's my dad?"

I lean forward in my chair at the dining room table to speak to him. "He went upstairs to work, I think," I tell him, reach out and ruffle his loose curls. "He should be back down soon for dinner."

River's face lights up. "Chinese?" he pleads, as Jude wanders in, as well.

With a resigned little sigh I ask Jude the same question, and then it's settled.

"Chinese for dinner."

Twin squeals come from the two and they dash happily back into the playroom. I chuckle and turn back to my notes, move a couple of large medical tomes around and find my place once more.

We're hanging out at my house tonight, as tomorrow Jude will be going to the hospital to have his implant done. Kurt suggested a sleepover to take his mind off it, and I readily agreed. Since that first, rained-in night, we've only repeated the experience once. Tonight will make three total, and it gives me every good feeling to see Kurt's overnight bag stashed in my room, his laptop charging with mine in the office, and four pairs of shoes by the front door.

I'm too preoccupied now to get any more work done, so I close all of my books and stash my pens and notepads back into my satchel to be pored over another time. A wondrous stretch that snaps my back in a few places and a hearty yawn, and I rise to my feet to grab the takeout menu from the kitchen and place a large order of food. That done, I'm about to go upstairs to haul Kurt out of the office, where he's stashed himself and a rather large cardboard box for the last three hours, but then his feet are on the landing and he's pattering down the steps.

"Blaine!" he exclaims, halting on the last step and holding the cardboard box again. "Are the kids in the den still?"

I nod and offer to put his box up for him, but he smiles and shakes his head.

"It's a surprise," he whispers exaggeratedly, then saunters away down the hall, leaving me to laugh and follow.

He barges into the den with a flourish, sets the box down with extreme care and kneels down behind it as Jude and River bolt up from their books and rush over.

"What's in the box, dad?" River asks, bouncing on his toes, and Jude looks just as excited next to him.

I drop to sit cross-legged on the floor next to the kids and draw them both in for a quick snuggle while Kurt explains.

"Well," he begins, his signing and voice going drawn-out and showy. "Tomorrow, Jude is going to have to spend the night in the hospital, right?" he asks them, and they nod. At the mention, Jude looks a little worried, so Kurt hurries on.

"I know you're going to be a little scared there," he continues, "because when I was your age I got really sick once, and they made me stay at the hospital for a while. My mom couldn't stay with me because she had to work, and even though my dad was there, I just wanted my family with me."

Jude's looking less concerned and more curious now, as Kurt opens two of the flaps on the box.

"Now," Kurt says, carefully pulling out a stuffed lamb toy, faded black and obviously well-loved, "because my mom couldn't be there, herself, she made me something that I could take with me, instead. It helped a lot, and when I got scared during the night, I could hug this toy and it felt like she was there."

He sets the toy down at his side and reaches into the box once more to pull out two stuffed alligators, each about two-and-a-half feet long with large plastic eyes and made of the soft green fleece I'd watched Kurt buy weeks ago. He hands one to each boy, and they grab at them immediately, River grinning and laughing, and Jude petting his reverently.

Kurt smiles at them, and looks to me a little uncertainly, like he's not sure if he's allowed to do something like this. I reach out and take his hand, run my thumb over his knuckles and say, "Thank you."

His smile grows wider and he clears his throat, tapping Jude's hand to get his attention again as I lean back.

"River and I won't get to stay with you," he tells him, and the boy nods sadly. "But you can take your alligator with you, he'll be right there during the surgery, and River will be holding his, too. The alligator will keep you safe until you wake up, and then River and I can come and see you. Okay?"

Jude's still for a moment, then he steps forward and, with one arm holding his new toy against his chest, he throws his other arm around Kurt's neck and hugs him tight.

"You're going to be just fine, buddy," Kurt breathes against Jude's hair, and Jude hums when he feels Kurt's voice. And when they separate, Kurt looks Jude right in the eye and signs, "I love you, Bug," which makes Jude squeal in happiness and hug him again.

_Yes,_ I think, watching Kurt consult with the two on what they're going to name their toys, _the moment Jude's home again, I'll tell him. I'll tell Kurt I love him._

"Wait!" River shouts, halting the proceedings. "What about you and Mr. Blaine? Don't you get ones for each other?"

I'm about to say that it's not the same, not really, when Kurt gives a wry grin and fumbles around in his box.

"I did have some fabric left over," he mentions, "so I made a couple critters for Mr. Blaine and I to have while Jude's sleeping, too."

At that he tugs out two spread-hand sized fleece turtles from the box and tosses one to me. It's squishy and soft and it smells a little bit like Kurt, and I love it already.

"And now we all have one," Jude signs happily, lowering himself to sit on Kurt's bent knee. "Thank you, Mr. Kurt."

"It's no trouble, Jude," he says, kisses the boys curls.

"I'm going to name mine Boris," River declares, holding up the alligator like Rafiki did Simba at Pride Rock.

"Boris, huh?" I ask him, and tickle his sides until falls into my lap, laughing and squirming. Kurt grins and folds back the flaps on his box, tucking his lamb toy safely back inside.

"What about you?" he asks Jude, who leans back against Kurt's chest in thought. Then, with a grin that shows all his little white teeth, he signs 'Bug' up at Kurt, who laughs.

We stay in the den for a little bit as the boys insist that Kurt and I name our turtles- Kurt decides his is a girl and names her 'Audrey', and I name mine 'Fred' so that they can star in one of my favorite movies together- until the doorbell rings and the food is brought in.

The evening goes quickly, ends with the kids falling asleep in the living room and needing to be carried up to Jude's room and tucked in like babies. I lead Kurt to my room, then; it's not terribly late but Jude has to be checked in at the hospital by seven, so it's best we head to bed now, even if I don't think I'll sleep very much. Grabbing some sweats and a t-shirt from my drawers, I change while Kurt takes a quick shower and turn down the bed. When he comes out, damp and sweet-smelling, I can't stop the content smile from edging its way across my face. We snuggle down, and I turn off the lamp.

"I've been thinking," Kurt hums into my shoulder, adjusts his head to fit more comfortably against my neck.

"About what?" I whisper back, thread my fingers through his hair.

He very nearly purrs at the touch. "Jude's birthday next week. I don't think he'll want a lot of people over to celebrate- he won't be completely recovered from his implant by then, and he might not be up for it."

I breathe out in quiet disbelief, a guilty stone drifting down to rest at the very bottom of my stomach. "I cannot believe I've forgotten my own kid's birthday."

Kurt snorts into my shirt, then grimaces. "That wasn't attractive, sorry," he mutters, nuzzles into me again. "But anyway, _I _can believe that you've…_misplaced _your son's birthday. With everything going on, Blaine, it's really a wonder you can remember your way down to the bakery."

That makes me chuckle, and the rock chips away a bit. "I still feel awful," I admit. "This will be his last deaf birthday. It should be special."

The way Kurt's idly picking at the front of my shirt lets me know he's probably already got an idea or two or _seven_ as to what we can do for Jude's birthday.

"Let's hear it," I tell him, and jostle him a bit in encouragement.

"Well," he drawls, smoothing his hand over my chest. "Like I said, I doubt he'll want a large affair. So, I was thinking, a nice dinner out, someplace quiet and just the five of us? And then, if he wants, I have a friend in West Roxbury who gives dance lessons. I know he really likes to watch dancing, so I thought he'd enjoy trying it. For now, he'll still have to feel it through the floor, but maybe if he likes it, he'll be up to trying it again in a couple of months when he can hear."

I mull it over, and it does sound better than a house full of six-year-olds rampaging around, screaming for cake and ice cream.

"We'll talk to Jude about it after, yeah?" I ask. "Nothing's set in stone?"

Kurt shakes his head. "Nothing's set in stone."

"Thanks for thinking about him."

I feel his smile against my shoulder. "I'm always thinking about you Andersons."

* * *

The morning is slow, lethargic and wet-heavy.

No one really wants to shower and get dressed, or make breakfast or pack up Jude's small duffel for his nights away. But it does get done, however lengthy the process, and four of us pile into Kurt's Navigator by six-twenty-five to crawl down the just-waking streets and into the city.

Jude gets checked in quickly, and River and Kurt stay as long as they possibly can before Jude's wheeled from the room and out of sight behind large metal doors, holding tightly to Bug and waving sadly.

"We'll be back tonight." Kurt rubs a soothing hand between my shoulder blades, but I can't quite get my eyes off those doors at the end of the hall yet, so I nod and swallow.

"Want me to bring anything for dinner?" Kurt asks, and River idly swings Boris' tail against my leg from where he stands, shoulders leaning against my hip.

"Whatever you want is fine," I shrug, and finally turn to face him. "But do you think you could grab some ice pops? Cherry. They're Jude's favorite when he's not feeling well."

Kurt smiles, kisses me softly and reaches out for River, who goes after a brief hug from me. "I can absolutely get some ice pops. I'll see you later."

"See you."

And he's gone, down the hall and River turns to wave back with his alligator, and I am so very, very thankful that I have those two in my life now.

One last look at the surgery doors before I turn and settle into Jude's empty room to wait. Dr. Licameli had warned it would be three hours at the earliest, so with one eye on the clock and my phone alarm set for twelve, I crack open to a bookmarked page in one of Kurt's novels and dive in.

* * *

_My goodness, he's so little, _I think, watching Jude sleep once he's been brought back in and checked over a final time.

The surgery had gone a little over; Jude began to seize right near the beginning, but a quick syringe of anti-convulsion medication stopped it and prevented any others from happening. He was brought down the hall at twelve-thirty-eight, reinstalled in his room while I got debriefed, and now I sit in the quiet with him, half on his bed and facing him, tracing his small features with a finger and brushing back his dark hair. Licameli had told me he probably won't wake up for another half hour, maybe more, so with one hand still cupping his face, I use the other to draw out my phone and hit the familiar speed-dial.

"Hello?" Kurt's voice crackles out in a rush of air, like he's been holding his breath and only just let it out. "Blaine? Is everything okay? Did it work? Is he awake?"

My laugh is quiet, a small chuckle filled with adoration. "Kurt, he is _fine_. One little seizure at the start, but they stopped it, and he's here with me now, sleeping."

"_Oh thank god,_" Kurt gasps, and there's a rustling on his end, a little voice asking a question, to which Kurt replies with, "Jude's okay, River, we'll get to see him later."

His voice is like a lullaby- I've been wound so tight all morning, the high, soothing tones are drawing my eyes down and making my head feel heavy and clouded.

"How does he look?" comes Kurt's voice again, and I bat away the drowsiness.

Another pet to Jude's head. "Little," I respond. "He's got a big white bandage on his head, and he's in a big white bed, in a big white room…"

Kurt sounds equal parts concerned and amused when he says, "Sweetheart? Are you alright?"

"'M tired," I yawn, "no biggie."

He laughs, melodious and light. "Maybe you should nap for a bit. You'll still be there when Jude wakes up."

I nod. That sounds like the _best _idea. "Sure thing."

"I'll see you in a few hours," Kurt reminds me. "I'll try to leave the publisher's office early, provided she doesn't start one of her monologues again."

I hum, perfectly content hearing his voice. "Hey, Kurt?"

"Yeah, Blaine?"

"You're my most favorite thing," I tell him, and the words might be a little slurred, but he seems to understand, if his fond chuckle is anything to go by.

"Get some sleep, Blaine," he commands. "I don't want _my _most favorite thing all lethargic when we come visit."

"You and Jude and River," I correct, watch one of Jude's curls spring back from where I've gently tugged it out. "All my favorite things."

He laughs again, says in a low tone, "Mine, too. Sleep tight."

And I just manage a "Bye" before he hangs up.

I toss my phone onto Jude's rolling tray table, carefully maneuver him a few inches over on the bed, then lay down and curl myself around him, hold him tight to my chest and let his steady breathing take me off to sleep.

* * *

_A/N: __ Quick note: the Jude/Paul story line was gleaned from the Frankie/Davy pairing in 'Dear Frankie', one of my most favorite movies. As an homage, the hospital scene in this chapter will follow the same scene from the movie quite closely. Thanks for reading!_


	8. -Without Having to Be In It

River and I charge into the hospital two hours before we'd planned to be there. My publisher, after six bouts of begging, whining, pleading, and bribing, had released me from the rest of the meeting with a bit of a smile and a, "You owe me, Hummel." Grinning, I'd scooped up River from my office, only just remembered to grab my keys, and booked it out of there.

Now, we're racing as inconspicuously up to Jude's room as possible, slowing down to a jittery walk whenever a member of staff happens by until we turn the final corner and jolt to a stop outside the proper door. I peer inside the small window and smile brightly, make a "Shh," gesture to River, and slowly ease open the door.

Blaine is passed out next to Jude on the single bed, one arm curled around his son and holding him fast. Jude, however, is blinking slowly at the ceiling, looking groggy but otherwise comfortable. When he sees us, his mouth quirks in a little smile and he waves one arm of his alligator at us in greeting. River grins back and holds up his own alligator in response.

Unwilling to wake Blaine from an obviously restful sleep, I forgo speech entirely and sign, "How are you feeling, Little Bug?"

He grins, follows it with a grimace, signs, "Hurts a little, but I'm okay."

"You'll be out of here in no time," I remind him, moving to perch on the very edge of the bed next to the boy's hip as River comes to stand just in front of me and leans back against my knee, placing his alligator along the edge of the bed next to Jude's.

"Your dad is drooling on you," he tells Jude, who cautiously turns his head to look down where, sure enough, Blaine's mouth is pressed against his son's shoulder on top of a small wet mark.

Jude frowns while I chuckle, reach for a tissue and gently ease Blaine's head back, dab at his mouth and chin and he licks his lips a bit and nuzzles his face back into the pillow. Finished, I toss out the tissue and set the small cooler I brought with Jude's ice treats in it on his rolling table, settle my bag onto the floor under the window, and ease into a chair.

I pop open the plastic cooler, rip as quietly as possible into the box of ice pops, and hand one to each boy.

"Try not to drip on your dad, yeah?" I grin at Jude and help him shuffle up until he's propped up against his pillows and is more or less sitting. It becomes a non-problem, however, when the crinkling of wrappers and the shifting on the bed rouses Blaine. He comes up with a sniffle and a small gasp, rubbing at his face with the flat of his hand until he notices that Jude is awake, and that they have company.

"Jude!" he cries, reaches out to stroke at Jude's face and gently brush at the hair above his bandage. "I'm so sorry I fell asleep. How are you feeling? Does your stomach hurt? Your head? Can you wiggle your toes for me, and your fingers? Do you-"

I'm about to cut him off when Jude, unfazed by his dad's clumsy and flailing signs, thrusts his arm forward until the tip of his ice pop smears across Blaine's lips, efficiently stopping his worried tirade. Startled, he looks between the slowly melting cherry ice and his son, then grins and nips off a chunk of ice.

"Missed you, kid," he signs, much calmer now, and Jude grins, his tongue and lips already stained a much brighter red.

"Will Jude be okay to come trick-or-treating?" River asks, licking at his mostly-devoured ice treat. "Will he have to stay here very long?"

Before I can answer that, Blaine stretches magnificently, his arms straight up over his head and his back arching with his head thrown back, _good lord_, then slides off the cramped bed.

"He should be out of here tomorrow afternoon," Blaine assures him, ruffling the boy's hair as he comes around the foot of the bed to drop a kiss to my forehead. "But about the trick-or-treating…"

River's eyes go impossibly wide, and the last bite of ice pop melts off the wooden stick and drips to floor, leaving three little puddles.

"We're not going trick-or-treating?" he demands, while I roll my eyes and nab a tissue to wipe up his spill. "But we _always _go trick-or-treating! Always! With Grandpa Burt and Uncle Finn and Uncle Wes and sometimes Uncle Puck, too, but daddy says they can't come, so you _have _to!"

Blaine looks flustered, and he glances furtively between me and River as if looking for guidance on how to defuse the situation while Jude looks on from the bed, licked-clean wooden stick in his hand. Blaine's never had to handle an upset River, so I understand his trepidation; it's one thing when your own kid is having a tantrum, but how do you handle another person's kid? It's an unfortunate wall that I really hope we can tear down, as I plan to keep Blaine around for a good long while.

"River, sweetheart," I start, and when I turn him to me I'm not shocked to see the beginnings of tears in his eyes. "Why don't we let Blaine explain what he means before we get upset for no reason, hmm?"

To my relief he nods, wipes his eyes, and raises his arms in a silent plea to be lifted up onto my lap. I oblige, and Blaine perches himself on the edge of Jude's bed.

"Well, every year in _our _family, we go trick-or-treating, too," he begins, and River perks up considerably. "But it's a little different. Maybe Jude can tell you what we do?" He turns to his son, who looks a little tired now, but happy to explain.

"We go to the neighborhood houses first," he starts, after handing his used-up stick to his dad to be disposed. "But only for a little bit right after dinner. They give out a lot of candy, so it's not so bad. Then, we go to a party with a lot of daddy's friends where we get _more _candy and there are games and food and things."

"A party?" I raise my eyebrows at Blaine, who pats his son's leg gently.

He nods. "It's a family gathering, don't worry," he says, seeing my doubtful look. "Most of the hospital staff not on shift come and bring their kids and spouses and whatnot, so there's a lot of stuff for the children to do."

I look to River, who's been nodding along to the conversation. "Sound like fun, kiddo?"

"Will there be lots of people?" he asks, worrying his fingers together in his lap.

With a soft touch I untangle his fingers and hold each of his hands in mine as Blaine says, "It might get a little crowded. If you feel uncomfortable, you can tell me or your dad and we can go sit in the car for a little bit. Okay?"

River still looks concerned, but he agrees. He even starts to get a little excited when Blaine walks him through the games they usually play, and how each kid gets a goody bag when they go home. By the time Jude's nurse comes in to adjust his drips, he's fully on board.

We all eat dinner together squashed around Jude's bed, plastic cartons from the cafeteria scattered on the rolling table tray and a Disney movie playing quietly on the television in the ceiling corner. When I come back from dumping our garbage in the large bin out in the hall by the nurse's station, River has crawled under the covers with Jude, who has fallen asleep.

"I guess we should get going," I remark, a little regretfully. "We'll come back first thing in the morning. Not even my whip-wielding publisher can make me go to the office on a Sunday."

Blaine pouts but concedes, scoops River out of the bed and into a tight hug that the boy returns wholeheartedly. I grab up my bag and the cooler, and hold River's alligator while he says goodbye to Blaine, then step up for my own hug once he's on the ground again.

"Text me once you get home, okay?" Blaine breathes against my neck and it's the most distracting and grounding thing.

I nod and kiss his temple, brush back some curls as we separate a bit. "Let me know if you need me to bring anything tomorrow."

"Will do," he smiles, kisses me once, twice, squeezes my hand and lets me go.

* * *

Jude's been home from the hospital for four days now, and has hardly been allowed to leave his bed from the moment they arrived; the only exception has been for him to come here while Blaine's at work and lay around on our couch where I can easily watch over him. But now he's feeling well enough for his birthday trip out to West Roxbury, so Blaine straps him carefully into the backseat of my SUV next to River, seats himself in the front with me, and we're off. I'd searched the internet for places to eat and found a small French bistro just a few blocks from the dance studio, so I have Blaine plug in the address into the mounted GPS system.

Dinner is quiet, like I'd planned, but mostly because Blaine can't seem to stop himself fussing over Jude, making conversation nearly impossible. River and I spend the meal seated across from the two, watching Blaine hold Jude's menu for him, cut his chicken and noddles into bite-sized pieces, and constantly ask him if he's feeling alright. Thirty minutes in and Jude is so frustrated he looks like he's about to cry, so I quickly announce a bathroom break for myself and the boy. Blaine looks a little confused, and just a bit hurt, maybe, as I scoop up his son from the chair and walk us briskly to the back of the restaurant.

Inside the small restroom, I sit Jude on the sink counter and pull a few paper towels, dampen them with cold water from the tap, and press them into his warm cheeks to calm him down. He smiles at me then, and raises his hands to cover my own.

"Feeling better?" I ask once he's cooled off, leaning against the counter next to him.

He nods his head, asks if we're going back to the table yet.

"When you're ready," I tell him, brush some of his curls back from his forehead. It's so striking, sometimes, his resemblance to Blaine. "You're dad's a little crazy tonight, huh?"

Jude nods emphatically, eyes wide, and I laugh. "He worries too much," the boy signs. "No matter how much I tell him I'm okay, he won't leave me alone."

I take in Jude's anxious little face and the frustrated set of his shoulders, then move to stand in front of him.

"It's a good dad's job to worry," I start, making sure to keep his attention. When River's upset, sometimes the hardest thing to do is to get him to just _listen_. "It just means that he wants you to be happy and healthy, and maybe he's being a little too…_enthusiastic_ about it, but he was really scared when you had your surgery."

Jude frowns. "Scared?"

I nod, grip his hands quickly in reassurance before continuing. "He was scared something would go wrong, that you might not be as okay as you are now. And you know something else?"

Jude shakes his head, raises a hand to his mouth and puts just the very tip of his thumb between his lips. I smile fondly and let it go for now.

"Your dad is also scared that once you can hear, you won't need him anymore. I think he's trying too hard to help you now, because he thinks once you can hear, you won't want him around as much."

The thumb pops out of Jude's mouth, accompanied by a little squawk of protest. "But I love my dad. Just because I'll be able to hear doesn't mean I won't want him anymore."

I laugh and ruffle his curls, smooth the collar of his shirt. "Yes, well, the first thing you should know about grown-ups is that, sometimes, we're not as smart as you kids might think we are. I tried telling him what you just told me, but apparently he doesn't believe me. Maybe you should talk to him tonight?"

The boy nods thoughtfully, reaches up and wiggles his fingers, so I pull him into my arms for a hug and ask, "Ready to go back out there?"

He nods, rests his head on my shoulder, and we head back into the dining room.

Blaine is staring morosely down at a piece of blueberry cheesecake while River devours a scoop of ice-cream across from him. There's a slice of lemon pie at Jude's place, and an extra fork next to the cheesecake. With one last squeeze around Jude's middle, I set him down next the table so he can climb into his own chair. Instead, he walks around until he's standing next to his dad and, when Blaine looks over to him, reaches out to grab his father into a hug. A little startled, but undeniably relieved, Blaine hauls Jude into his lap and pulls the pie over for him while I lift River from his seat and then settle the both of us back into it. With a small grin and a thankful nod, Blaine works off a chunk of the cake and holds it up across the table for me.

* * *

The studio hardly looks like anything from the outside, just some metal doors stuck in a brick wall, a couple windows further down. But the inside gleams with polish, all tile and wood floors, granite counter-tops along the reception desk and enormous glass doors into the studio proper. A hallway extends past the reception desk, long and dark, but there are more sets of glass doors set into one side leading into three other studio spaces. There's no one waiting when we come in, so I check the address again and, when I realize this is, indeed, the correct place, we mill around the waiting room for a few moments until footsteps come toward us from the long hallway. With a happy shout, Mike Chang jogs into the room and twirls me into a hug, laughing.

"Good to see you, Kurt!" he laughs, sets me down on my feet again. "It's been years, oh my goodness."

I'm grinning, too, and say with a shrug, "Been busy, I guess."

At that, Mike's eyes grow a little darker and his smile fades. "Tina told me about all that," he explains, glances over at the boys who are standing with Blaine. He lowers his voice and leans in. "You're okay now? Everything's alright?"

With a happy nod to reassure him, I gesture for the other three to come over. River takes my hand immediately, but the Andersons are a little more hesitant.

"River, sweetheart, this is a good friend of mine from school, Mike," I introduce, and Mike beams, holding out a hand that River shakes. "And, Mike, this is Blaine," I tug Blaine's sleeve to get him to stumble a little closer to us, "and his son, Jude."

When Jude steps up to shake Mike's hand, I lean in and sign out Mike's name, and explain that he's the one who's going to be teaching us to dance. Jude smiles and nods, bounces a little on his toes with excitement.

Mike claps his hands and gestures for us all to follow him down the hall. He stops just before the last set of doors, then turns to grin sheepishly at me.

"Those of you with your hearing intact might want to cover your ears. I may not have told a certain someone that you're visiting."

Confused, we follow Mike through the doors and into a spacious room with a black floor and mirrors along two walls. There's a sound system in the corner, with several large speakers resting directly on the floor along the back wall and a woman with her back to us fiddling with the machine. Mike clears his throat and she turns around, sees him first, then River and Jude, and then-

"KURT!" comes the shout, followed by a piercing squeal, then tap shoes pound across the floor and with a perfectly graceful jump, Tina Cohen-Chang arcs into my arms.

She's babbling into my neck, and I think I feel tears, so I turn to give Mike a frightened stare and he quickly pulls Tina out of my arms.

"I'm just so happy to see you," she sniffs, wipes at her face with her hands and smiles at me. "You look good, Kurt," she says, giving me a searching look and then her eyes dart to Blaine. Her smile softens, turns knowing, but she doesn't say anything more. I notice a wedding band on her finger and feel horrible that I missed the ceremony, but she brushes it off, says it was unplanned and that I needn't worry, as I was dealing with things of my own at the time, anyway. Still, I make a promise to myself to be a better friend from here on out.

"Come on, people," Mike declares, ushering us along and over to the sound equipment, behind which sits a closet. "I wasn't sure exactly what type of dancing would be best, considering," he explains with a quick smile at Jude, "but then I thought, '_you can't go wrong with the classics,'_ and so," Mike tugs the closet doors open and rummages around, returning with five or six shoe-boxes. Tina takes one from his arms and open it with a flourish to reveal a pair of gleaming black tap shoes, similar to the ones on her own feet.

"We're tap dancing?" Blaine asks, eyes wide with wonder. "I've always wanted to try. Kurt, this is awesome!"

In a matter of minutes we're all wearing the shoes and Mike stands with the four of us in the middle of the floor facing the back wall where Tina is fiddling with a remote control.

"Now," Mike starts, facing us, watching interestedly as Blaine translates for Jude, "this might be a little difficult at first, but there's a good, steady beat, and I worked out a simplified version of the steps for you. But before I show you the music, you need to learn how to tap."

He spends the next several minutes getting us acquainted with the shoes, and Jude smiles when he feels his shoes hit the floor in a quick rhythm. Mike teaches us a few simple steps and turns and flicks, and by then we're all a little antsy to get to the dance proper. Tina comes back over to us and points her remote at the back wall, causing a screen to unroll from the ceiling. There's a projector mounted almost directly above us, and it whirs to life and spits out the image of a paused video onto the screen.

"Gents and smaller gents," Mike waves his hand dramatically at the image, "your instructor for the evening, the one and only, Fred Astaire."

I recognize the video instantly, even from the still frame of white-outlined people, and wiggle excitedly. Blaine grins over at me when he notices, and shoots a thumbs-up.

"I figure we'll watch the video entirely first," Tina says while looking at Jude and Blaine, "and have him watch their feet so he can match their steps with the beat of the music."

Nods all around and the video plays, the familiar tune pounding out into the room, just about too-loud, but Jude's beaming up at the screen as he feels the music and watches the dance. Blaine keeps his hands on Jude's shoulders and taps his fingers softly to the beat, his left hand hitting the quarter notes and his right an eighth-sixteenth-sixteenth rhythm. About halfway through the video, when Fred Astaire dances to the little musical interlude, I glance down at River to see him staring intently at the screen, mouth open in amazement and his eyes wide. With a knowing sigh, I wonder if we'll be working in dance classes to his schedule now, too.

The next two hours are a whirl of tapping, heel-toe-heel-heel-toe, and spins and turns and trots. Mike breaks down the dance into small sections, simplifying the more complicated moves until we've learned a working choreography that compliments the video. He has us dance in pairs, Blaine and I together, Tina with River and Mike with Jude, and during the next run through, I can't help but sing along with the track. It helps with my steps, and soon Blaine joins in.

"_Dressed up like a million dollar trooper,_" we sing around smiles too big for our faces, "_trying mighty hard to look like super duper Mr. Cooper._"

Mike laughs with us and leads Jude through a more difficult part. The boy is still a little hesitant, but when Mike has them move closer to the speakers so he can feel the beat better, Jude gains confidence and pounds out the steps happily.

Eventually we stop, panting, and Tina makes me promise to come back next week for lunch or tea or "_something_, Kurt, I don't care, I just miss you."

The tap shoes go back into the closet, but with our names on the boxes this time, and the Changs lead us out into the reception area. Hugs all around, a kiss on the cheek from Tina, and then the Andersons, River and I climb into the car to head home, exhausted, but happy.

Sure enough, the next morning, River asks when we're going back for more lessons, so I roll my eyes and set up a weekly Sunday morning session for him, wondering just when he'll tire of all the activity. At the very least, I think, it will give me the chance to see Mike and Tina on a regular basis.

* * *

"River, I need you to hold still, please," I grumble for the third time, fingers on the hem of my son's outfit and a pin in my mouth.

The boy hasn't stopped squirming since I showed him his costume and told him to try it on, his little face scrunched in absolute delight. The hat doesn't need any sizing, yet he insists on wearing it for the fitting.

"Sorry, dad," he chirps, and he doesn't sound very sorry at all.

I roll my eyes fondly, slide the last pin home, then slip the coat off his shoulders. "Last one, then your costume is all finished."

He jumps off the little stool I'd perched him on and bounces around the living room while I take the garment into the dining room to do up the hem. I don't have any office space in this house, so I re-purposed the seldom-used dining room into a sewing room for the time being. The table has been pushed up against one wall, with three of the four chairs trapped between, and pulled closer to the window. The last chair sits on the opposite side, with the sewing machine in front of it on the table and remnants of fabric scattered around it on the floor. At the beginning, the fabric had been sorted into large piles along the empty wall by costume and garment; now there are only two little bundles left, as everything's been done except my own tie, and the outer pockets on Blaine's coat.

As requested, the four of us are going as characters from _Alice in Wonderland_, but I took some creative liberties with the outfits. They're more ambiguous, relying on color and overall theme to convey the characters rather than creating the cut-and-paste kind of costumes from stores. Still, I'd tacked up some of the original illustrations from the books for inspiration and guidance, along with a few stills from various movie adaptations. Cooper had been invited to be either the March Hare or the Caterpillar, but he'd declined in favor of attending his neighbor's party with the hope of wooing her into a passionate romance.

As for the costumes, I don't think they turned out half bad.

"River, can you get the door?" I call out when I hear rapid knocking from the front hall. River's feet patter from the living room to the front door, and he laughs happily as he lets Blaine and Jude in.

"Oh my goodness, River!" I hear Blaine exclaim as the door closes once more. "You look incredible!"

Then three sets of pounding feet herd into the dining room and Blaine starts snooping around, shifting my sewing boxes and scraps, lifting piles of trimmings and even peeking under the table.

"Where's mine?" he pouts when he comes up, still on his knees as he shuffles over to me. "I wanna see mine, where is it? Kurt. Kurt, where is it?"

There's no point in trying not to smile, so I finish off the top-stitching along the bottom of River's coat, neatly trim the thread, then shake it out and inspect it.

"Patience," I remind Blaine, then beckon my son over to try out the garment one last time. He's fit to burst as I smooth the incredibly dark purple panné velvet across his shoulders. It's come out a little thicker, a little warmer, than I perhaps intended, but I figure he can always take it off, and October in Massachusetts is quite cool, anyway.

"Perfect," I smile, and River whoops aloud in joy, spins around to show Jude who claps excitedly.

"My turn?" Blaine asks, reaching out to paw at my hands. "My turn, my turn, my turn."

"Jude's turn," I correct, and have the boy strip while I dash upstairs to retrieve the proper outfit from the hiding place in my closet. Returning downstairs with the bundle, I see Blaine smirking at me with a glint in his eye, and Jude standing next to the table in nothing but his boxers.

"Upstairs, huh?" Blaine sings, then crows as he dashes past me and into the hall.

I roll my eyes and share an understanding look with Jude, who slides cooperatively into his outfit. Since he and River are just about the same size, despite Jude being older, I've made both outfits to similar measurements. It fits wonderfully, and just needs a little taking in on the shirt and some hemming on the pants. I do the pants first, quickly fold up the bottoms and stitch them down, and I've just put them back on Jude when Blaine walks in once more, empty-handed.

"Couldn't find them?" I ask, smug, and remove the tailcoat from Jude so I can pinch and pin his shirt.

He sighs and sits against the all with River, who's playing with a deck of cards. "They're in a bag at the back of your closet. I wanted to look, but you wouldn't be keeping it a secret if you didn't want me to be surprised. So I didn't."

I poke the last pin in and unbutton the shirt. "Thank you," I say, popping over to give him a quick kiss to his curls and then begin tacking down the new seams. "I know you're excited, but you'll just have to wait. Even River waited."

Blaine turns shocked eyes to River, who nods solemnly. "It was awful, Mr. Blaine, but I did it."

I snort and shake my head, concentrating on my sewing for the next several minutes. Finished, I trim it up and tuck Jude back into the full ensemble, push the shirt into his pants and cinch the belt, double-checking the fit of everything while Jude idly fingers at the two chains crossing the front of his two-toned, purple-striped tailcoat.

"You look amazing, Jude," Blaine beams, reaching out to finger at the cuffs and the lapels. "How did you do all this?" He traces a line of stitching that runs across the front of the lapel with his little finger. I shrug and mutter something about "practice makes perfect," while blushing and trying to hide it.

"How does it feel?" I ask Jude, and he signs, "Really good," so I lead him to stand in front of the tall mirror in the hall and ask him how it looks. He gasps and turns to hug me viciously around the hips.

"Well you're very welcome," I murmur after I've lifted him up and pulled him close, his hand automatically resting against my throat. He hums happily before wiggling to get down, running into the living room with River to play.

Blaine turns to me with hopeful eyes. "My turn?"

With a nod I set about the process all over again, but thankfully Blaine's hardly needs alteration at all, just at his pant hems that I made too long, causing him to lounge around the room in his White Rabbit button-up shirt and ribbon tie with a waistcoat over top, and jack-o-lantern boxers that make me giggle incessantly.

"They're festive, jackass," Blaine had muttered as he'd handed over the pants, then proceeded to sulk in the corner after tugging his overcoat on. He hadn't stopped pouting until I'd handed over his garment with a fond smile and a minutes-long, teeth-tingling kiss.

"Okay, I think we're ready to go," I announce an hour later, pounding down the stairs in my own get-up as Alice, pulling at my tie to get it on straight and then making sure everyone has managed their shoes alright. Only Jude seems to be having trouble with the snaps on his boots, so I fix them up quickly and Blaine herds us out the door.

True to their word, the Andersons take us all around their neighborhood, full of large homes and some truly spectacular decorations. One house has their whole front yard turned into a maze that trick-or-treaters have to navigate to get candy. Another has a cemetery out front, complete with the Grim Reaper and skeletons hanging off the fake tombstones.

River's not the biggest fan of Halloween, but he loves dressing up, and his Uncles back in Ohio had always made sure not to let him get too scared. Jude hardly minds at all, as most of the scare tactics are sudden noises and spooky music that he can't hear, anyway.

After a tour of the Anderson's street and the next one down, we return to their house to drop off the boys' candy buckets in the kitchen, freshen up, then pile into the car to drive the seven minutes over to one of Blaine's colleague's houses. It's an enormous place, with three levels and an iron fence, made all the more intimidating by the decorations littering the front yard. River clings to my hand as we go up the path, the music from inside leaking out to smooth over the yard, a trail of lamps lighting our way through yet another cemetery display.

The party goes well enough. Jude is obviously more comfortable than River, as he's met most of these people before, and doesn't hesitate to rush into the kitchen with a few other youngsters. River stays by me for the first hour, refusing to play with Jude and the others and clinging to my hand with both of his. I try to get him to let me go for just a few moments so I can use the bathroom, but he plants his little feet and doesn't budge, his eyes wide and watery. I'm about to just take him in with me, privacy be damned because I _have _to go, when Blaine swoops in and lifts him up.

"How about I take him to the backyard for a bit? It's much quieter," Blaine suggests, and I agree, giving both of them quick kisses before I bolt around the corner for the thankfully empty restroom. When I come back, Jude is looking around in confusion until he spots me and jogs over, asking where his dad is.

"He's out back with River," I explain, and let him drag me around the floor and introduce me to some of his friends. While I watch him and a few others play a beanbag toss game, I'm approached by several of Blaine's colleagues who all seem to know my name already, and compliment the costumes I've made.

Blaine stays out with River for almost an hour, so Jude and I play a few games and raid the snack table in the kitchen. We make up a large plate of goodies to take out to them, grab some apple juice boxes, and squeeze out the sliding glass doors onto the patio. We find River curled up against Blaine's chest on a wooden bench swing, his hat resting on the seat beside them and his fists tightened into Blaine's overcoat. When he sees me, River reaches out both hands in a silent plea, so I exchange the treats for my son and tug him into my arms, walking with him to the edge of the patio to lean against the wooden railing.

"Feeling better, Hatter?" I mumble into his loose curls as he nuzzles into me.

"Mr. Blaine sang me some songs," he says into my shoulder. "And he said that we could go home if I wanted to, but I think I want to stay."

"Yeah?"

He nods, fiddles with my collar. "He said it'll get quiet soon, when the grown-ups make fancy drinks so they can talk, and that all the kids are going to watch a movie on a really big T.V."

I rub his back and hold him a little closer when a breeze flows by, chilling the air. "Did he say which movie?"

"_The Nightmare Before Christmas_." River looks out over the expansive back yard, lit up with fairy lights in the trees and cobwebs strung between branches.

"Oh, you like that movie," I enthuse, bouncing him a bit and tickling his side until he giggles. "Will you be okay there with Jude while I'm with Blaine and the other grown-ups, or do you want me to stay with you?"

"I think I'll be okay," River says, then thinks it over. "But can I come get you if I'm not?"

I kiss his cheek. "Absolutely."

There's a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I look around to see Blaine standing with Jude.

"They're starting the movie," he says, gesturing inside. "You ready to give it another try?"

River nods and climbs over into Blaine's arms, whispers "_Thank you_," before sliding down to the ground where Jude takes his hand with a smile. Blaine gathers up the empty juice boxes and paper plate, then leads us all back inside. He dumps the trash before showing Jude and River over to the large den where about a dozen other kids, most of them only a little older than our boys, are sprawled out on the carpet with pillows and bowls of popcorn in their laps. Jude settles with his back against a couch and pulls River next to him. A quick reminder that we're just down the hall if they need us, and we leave.

Hours later, after several conversations I could hardly follow and one glass of white wine I diluted with water, the four of us troop tiredly into the Anderson home. The boys dump their goodie bags next to their trick-or-treating buckets on the kitchen table before heading upstairs to get ready for bed. I help them out of the costumes myself so that they don't just leave them on the floor, then make sure teeth are brushed and faces are washed when Blaine comes in to tuck them in. We bid the two goodnight, I gather up the clothes, and we retreat into the master bedroom.

"Thanks for taking care of River today," I tell Blaine as I fold up the boys' costumes neatly and leave them on the chair by the window. "You're really good with him."

Blaine shrugs out of his waistcoat, the heavier overcoat already draped over the end of the bed. "It's no more than you would do for Jude," he responds, working at the buttons of his shirt while I gather up the sweats and t-shirt I'd left in Blaine's bottom dresser drawer earlier in the day. "I've seen you with him, he adores you. Especially after you made him that alligator."

I pause, halfway out of my own clothes as Blaine slips into his flannel sleep pants and a soft shirt. "You really think so?"

Blaine looks at me a little oddly. "Of course. Jude loves you."

My breath hitches a bit and I feel kind of flush. I've worried about River getting too attached to Blaine in case things don't work out, but I hadn't stopped to consider that he might have done the same with Jude. And even though I don't see myself ending things with Blaine any time soon, if ever, it still makes me wonder if we might not end up hurting the boys in the end, in spite of it all. Still, I can't help the euphoria that comes with knowing how much Jude trusts me and loves me. It makes my relationship with Blaine feel like so much more.

"Hey," Blaine whispers, kneeling in front of me where I've sunk down onto the plush chair. "Can I tell you a secret?"

I nod a little numbly and he takes my hands in his, holds them together atop my knees.

"I wasn't supposed to tell you this until Jude could hear," he goes on, rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles and scooting forward a bit, "but he won't understand the words, anyway, and if I don't do this now I'll probably just spout it out while I'm brushing my teeth or doing something equally as gross."

He untangles one of our hands to reach up and stroke my cheek with a warm palm, his fingers brushes against the hair at my temple and his thumb resting just under my eye. It's quiet, it's grounding, and I turn my head into the touch as if that will make it stay.

Blaine licks his lips, flicks his eyes down to the floor then up along my bare torso, keeps going until he reaches my eyes and then they rest there, sure, unwavering.

"Jude's not the only one that loves you," he breathes, watching me intently, gaze full of meaning.

It takes me a moment to process, and when I do, my eyes go wide and my mouth drops open unattractively. Blaine laughs nervously, moves the hand on my cheek to stroke at my jaw until it closes again and I swallow in disbelief.

"You-"

Blaine nods. "Love you, yeah. I do."

I shake my head in astonishment, and Blaine's face falls at the action, his hand dropping from my cheek to my knee. Realizing what I've done, I quickly reach out to grip his face in both my hands and return his gaze to me.

"No, I didn't mean-…I only meant-…I'm not _denying _it, I just-" I make a frustrated noise because the words aren't coming out right and Blaine still looks a little hurt, like he thinks I don't want him to love me, so I tighten my hands a bit, not enough to cause pain, but enough to draw him forward and into a searing kiss. He's tense at first, but he relaxes after a few seconds and winds his fingers around my wrists, keeping my hands to his face.

We pull apart slowly, breathing heavily, and he's just staring at me with large, vulnerable eyes, and I realize that he's just as terrified of falling in love as I am; the only difference is that he's accepted that, and I haven't.

"I can't-" I stutter against his lips, and my eyes water helplessly. "_Thank you_, Blaine, for loving me, but I'm not-…not yet, I mean…I just-"

His lips on mine silence me, and for another minute I don't have to think about words and speaking, I can just feel him moving against me, pushing up into me until he's straddling my hips on the chair and he's sitting in my lap and the only thing I can feel or breathe or taste is Blaine, Blaine, _Blaine._

"That's okay," he whispers, quickly, kisses me again. "It's alright if you're not there. But," and he pulls away further, holds my head still and I try to catch my breath, "you'll get there, right? You're not-…someday, right?"

I nod furiously, tip my head forward to rest my forehead on his chin and I feel him pressing kiss after kiss into my hair.

"_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_," I chant in a rough whisper, clutching at the back of his t-shirt. He shushes me some more and strokes my hair, hums a little melody into my ear until my breathing has slowed and I don't feel quite so much like crying anymore.

Blaine tugs me back, pushes me to rest against the back of the chair and catches my gaze with his.

"I'm here," he tells me softly, strongly, "for as long as it takes. I know how hard this is for you, and it's hard for me, too, so please take your time, and don't tell me because you think it's what I want to hear, okay?"

I nod jerkily, touch my face to make sure there aren't any errant tears, and try for a smile. It doesn't work, I think, because Blaine looks a little sad. He touches his fingertips to my cheeks.

"Take your time," he repeats, kisses my nose, and it makes my smile a little happier. "Tell me when you're ready, and not a moment before. Okay?"

Once again I nod, close my eyes, and _breathe_. "Okay."

He smiles at me, soft and genuine, and we share another kiss. "Good."

Blaine sends me off to wash my face and change while he finishes folding our costumes and turning down the bed. When I come back into the bedroom, he's already settled under the covers and leaning up against the pillows, fiddling with his phone in his lap. The bedside lamp is on, so I flick off the overhead lights and crawl in next to him.

"What're you doing?" I ask softly, my voice still a little wrecked, so I clear it quietly.

He smiles and shrugs. "Cooper texted, asked how the party went. And Wes wants you to call him tomorrow, said he tried your phone but it's off."

I hum in acknowledgement and snuggle into his side. Blaine reaches over to set his phone down on the table, shuts off the lamp, and slides down to lay fully on the bed, tugging me closer to him. We wriggle around until he's on his back and I'm curled next to him, my head on his shoulder and my hand on his chest, one leg over top and between his. He pets at my hair and urges me to sleep.

Just before I do, so quietly I wonder if I'm dreaming it, Blaine leans down and breathes, "_I love you_," once more.

I sleep with a smile.

* * *

The next morning I wake early, clear light streaming in from the window and falling in stripes across the bed from the blinds. I turn to my side and watch Blaine burrow into the pillow in response to my movement. He's on his stomach, both arms curled under the pillow and his face half-buried in the fabric. His curls are monstrous, wild and frizzy, and I can't help but reach over with a groggy hand to smooth them down and twirl some of the more adventurous ones around my fingers. Blaine sniffs and shuffles, turns his head away from me, scrunches his nose at the light, and turns it back. I smile fondly, kiss his forehead for a lingering moment, and crawl delicately out of bed to dress.

Downstairs, I start a large pot of coffee and peer at the hanging calendar on the fridge to note that Blaine needs to be up in about half an hour, at eight, to make his nine-o'-clock shift at the hospital. It's Sunday, and River's dance lesson isn't until ten, so the boys can sleep in a little longer if they want to. I pause the coffee machine when it's made enough for a single cup, pour it into a mug, and replace the decanter, turning the brew back on. I take my coffee to the living room and find my phone on the end table where I'd left it last night. Remembering that I need to call Wes, I turn it on, wait for it to wake up, then dial the familiar numbers. As a lawyer, I'm positive that Wes rises before dawn even on Sundays.

"Kurt?" comes his chipper voice over the line, bright and happy, and I'd appreciate it more if I weren't still a little hazy with sleep.

"Blaine said you'd called," I say, thick and sleepy. "What's up?"

There's shuffling on the other end, it sounds like papers or maybe clothes, someone moving quickly through a room…

"Right, well, you see," Wes mumbles, and he sounds so suddenly anxious that it makes my heart pound.

"Out with it, Wesley," I demand, setting my still-full mug on the coffee table and slouching into the couch.

He coughs, clears his throat. "Right, well, there's a bit of a problem. With Henry."

I shut my eyes in despair, hope against hope that I've heard him wrong, but nothing's changed when I open them again. "Tell me what it is, Wes."

"Well, you see, he's apparently gotten himself to some support groups, attends his job daily, and with the help of his daddy's money, and his daddy's lawyer, is contesting custody of River. He's in Massachusetts now getting the restraining order removed. And I know this lawyer, Kurt, he is _ruthless_, no doubt he's greasing the judges' palms, and Henry's father is spearheading the whole thing."

My heart goes still, then pounds a merciless beat against the inside of my skull. The headache is instantaneous, and the bone-deep exhaustion follows quickly. I swallow down on my panic and manage a shaky, "What do I do, Wes?"

He's off in a second, speaking hastily down the phone about legal action and court and my head is spinning and spinning and spinning and I lurch up from the couch to stagger through the kitchen to the sink, where I bend over and heave into the basin, dropping my phone to the counter. Nothing's coming up but a bit of acid and bile, yet I'm still convulsing painfully. I must have been making some awful noise because suddenly there are hands on me, soothing down my back stroking at my hair.

_Blaine_, I think, and the room's gone fuzzy.

The retching eases for a few moments, and Blaine takes the opportunity to shove two little white pills into one of my hands and a glass of water into the other. Without another thought I down the tablets with one quick gulp, and almost immediately the roiling in my stomach calms, then ceases entirely.

"Kurt," Blaine says, grips my arms where I've braced them against the counter. "Kurt, are you okay?"

In lieu of a verbal response, I jerk my head to phone lying near the toaster, Wes' voice still emanating from the speaker. Blaine picks it up, has a short, intense conversation, then hangs up. His hands are on me again and his lips are at my ear, his breath coming out in a long chant of "_it's okay, it's okay, it's gonna be okay_," and I want to believe him, but it's _hard_.

He takes me to the living room and sits with me on the couch until the boys come downstairs and I make him get ready for work.

"I'll be alright," I assure him, feeling just a little fuzzy, but much calmer than before. Now that the panic's worn off, my tired brain does understand that Wes will do everything he can to keep Henry from River, and that, no matter if he has the best lawyer in the world, Henry hardly has a legal leg to stand on.

"You're sure?" Blaine asks, concerned, and I smile gently at him.

"Positive."

He nods, kisses me. "I'm going to call Cooper to hang with you for a bit," he says, and quickly shushes me when I start to protest. "Those pills I gave you make you drowsy, so please let Cooper drive you for the day, okay? I don't want to get a phone call at work telling me you're in a ditch somewhere. I might not actually survive that."

"Okay," I promise him. "Okay, I will. Have a good day."

Another kiss, and he's out the door. I wave him off, then turn back into the house to see Jude and River with bowls of cereal in front of the television, watching cartoons and trying not to make a mess all over Blaine's couch.

With a heavy, determined sigh, I sit next to River and cradle him close, silently swearing to him and myself that nobody will ever take him away from me.

* * *

_A/N: As always, thank you so very much for reading, and the feedback is forever appreciated. Also, whenever I bring any sort of legal situations into a story I research as much as I can, but in this case I'd appreciate it if you would adopt a "Shh, Just Go With It" mindset, as I'm pretty sure this is extremely unlikely, but I don't feel like reading law books today._

_And to answer your question, __**Chrisch**__, no, I don't actually have much to do with the deaf community here. However, Sign Language has fascinated me for a long time, as does deaf culture, and I plan to be more active in it in the future. In addition, though, I've learned many languages in the past several years, and Sign has been my favorite and the one that feels most natural, even though I grew up speaking English and German. There are other reasons, but they're more personal, so suffice it to say that Sign Language is very special to me in certain ways. Thanks for reading and for your review :)_


	9. Love Always Wakes The Dragon-

"And then he calls, out of the fu-, whoops, sorry River, _freaking _blue, saying he's contending custody!"

I'm waving a forkful of chicken and spinach around in agitation across from a thoroughly confused and upset Mike and Tina.

It's a week after the phone call, a Sunday, and River and I are at a small little French café with the Changs after his dance lesson, taking refuge from the already biting winter cold at a table near a small fireplace. There are a couple of long logs lit and happily crackling, the occasional sparks dancing out to land on the stone floor.

"He can't possibly win, though, can he?" Mike asks, biting at his beef sandwich, eyebrows drawn together in concern. "I mean, he's literally done nothing but endanger the two of you, why is he even trying?"

I shake my head. "Wes went through everything, even got some statements from people back in Ohio. There is a one-hundred percent chance of failure on his part. What Wes assumes, though, is that Henry's father will petition for primary care, with the intent to give River to his son once he's sobered up."

"And what's their case against you?" Tina inquires, quietly assisting River in cutting up a few long strips of pasta into manageable bites. The boy's been oddly calm, even after his father explained to him what happened.

I shrug, poke at some cucumber and carrot bits. "They'll probably make up some crap, say I'm an unfit father, forcing my kid into strenuous physical activity, leaving him in the care of near-strangers. But really, there is _no _judge on this _planet _that will rule in his favor, and he knows it. I think he's just trying to shake me up. He wants _me _to think I'm not doing right by River, and I won't have that."

I place my fork down and rub at my temple, trying to soothe away the nascent pangs of a headache. River reaches over to pat my knee in comfort, which makes me smile and ruffle his hair to make him laugh.

"You almost done, buddy?" I ask him, and he nods, stuffs the last of his cheesy pasta into his mouth, and hops out of his chair. "We'll see you next week, yeah?" I say, fishing out enough cash to cover mine and River's food and setting it on the table.

Tina nods happily. "Of course! Say 'Hi,' to Blaine and Jude for us?"

I nod, bundle River up in his coat and do up the toggles on mine, then grab his hand and lead him out into the parking lot where gentle flurries, the first of the season, swirl about us.

* * *

"Come on, it's through here," Blaine says, grabbing my hand and tugging me into a small conference room on the first floor of the Children's Hospital where he works.

I've just come from a meeting with my publisher, ironing out the details and finalizing print versions for my new book. It's scheduled to come out soon after the new year, and the pace has been picking up in order to get everything ready. It always leaves me frazzled, but the excitement and pride make it all worth it.

Blaine sets us up near the back of the room at a table with two rolling, cushioned chairs behind it. A small dummy lies supine on the table, a very basic plastic kit next to it with masks and gloves inside. I groan just a bit as I sit down, my head throbbing vengefully in protest. Any and all movement seems to aggravate it, especially when I try to turn my head to either side.

"You all right?" Blaine asks in concern, reaching over to place his hand on my knee and squeeze gently. "We can leave if you're not feeling well."

I contemplate shaking my head, then decide against it. "I'll be fine. I need to get re-certified, because god forbid something happens to one of the kids and I can't do a damn thing. It's just a headache. I'm fine."

He doesn't look convinced, but as the room reaches just about three-quarters full, and the instructor walks in behind the last stragglers, he lets it go with a soft kiss to my cheek.

As Blaine gets regular CPR training at the hospital, he's only here for moral support. I'd gotten certified in infant CPR soon after River was born, and then in child CPR once he turned three, but that certification has since expired, so Blaine had offered to bring me to the hospital class to learn the most up-to-date techniques and to get a new card.

The class is slow, and only gets slower. I do the motions- breath in, then out into the mouth, compressions, check pulse, breathe- but my head is getting foggier and my eyes aren't focusing right. As soon as the doctor in charge calls for a ten-minute break, I dash out of the room and to the water fountain just outside, desperately guzzle down two migraine-strength painkillers, then jog into the restroom to splash cold water on my face. Blaine finds me here, with my elbows braced on the edge of the sink and a wet paper towel pressed to my forehead. He sighs, takes the towel from my hands and re-dampens it, returns it to my aching head.

"Have you taken anything?" he asks quietly, rubbing gentle circles into my back.

I nod. "Two. Excedrin. About five minutes ago." Even without looking at him, I know he's checking his watch for the time to make sure I don't end up taking another dose before the first has worn off.

A few moments later, I tug his hand away and straighten up. "It should get better soon," I tell him, them grimace at my red face in the mirror. I don't have a fever, but the cool towel has helped return some clarity to my pounding brain. We leave the bathroom together, Blaine glancing worriedly at me until we're seated once more behind our table.

The second half of the class is better. The pounding recedes to a dull, constant throb, and when it's my turn to be assessed, I go through the procedure with confidence and don't miss a single step. I walk out of there with a new laminated card in my wallet, and a small weight lifted from my chest with the reassurance it brings me.

Back home, Blaine declares he's going to make dinner, and that I should rest while he's doing that, so I roll my eyes at his over-protective nature, kiss him quick on the lips, and retreat upstairs to curl into his large, soft bed for a few minutes of quiet time. With the lights off, door closed, and my body still, the pain in my head becomes entirely more manageable, and it isn't long until I fall asleep.

I wake up slowly to dim light, soft murmurs, and a calloused hand stroking back my bangs. My eyes open to see Blaine's arm first, and I track it down to his face. He's smiling, compassionate and eyes still worried, his brows just a bit pinched above them.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks, his hand in my hair stilling, thumb rubbing oh-so-gently into the skin above my eye.

I lick my lips, rasp out, "A little bit," and try to smile.

He grimaces in sympathy and leans back, grabs a plate from the dresser and sets it in his lap while I scoot up into something of a sit.

"I brought you some dinner," he explains, picks up the fork. "I figured you wouldn't be up for much, so it's just some mashed potatoes, and a few bites of plain chicken."

"Thank you," I whisper, letting him settle the plate on my thighs and place the fork at my fingers. "What time is it?"

"About ten," he says, stretches his arms above his head for a moment. "I wanted to let you sleep off the headache, but I guess it didn't work."

I shake my head the tiniest bit, and it still makes the pain flare up. My eyes squint against it, and I swallow down a bite of potato. Blaine encourages several more bites before he lets me down two more pills, then takes the plate when I'm done.

"The boys are already in bed," he explains, leans forward to kiss my nose. "Cooper's in the guest room. I'll come join you once I take care of this."

I grunt in agreement and slither back down in the bed to watch Blaine leave. Wriggling in discomfort, I reach under the covers and tug off my jeans, heavy and warm from sleep, and nudge them off the bed. Then go my vest and my button-up, leaving me in a t-shirt and boxers that feel wondorously cool in contrast. Blaine comes back in and strips in much the same way before climbing in beside me. We kiss for a minute, until my eyes start to droop and my head starts to loll, and then Blaine reaches up to flick off the lamp, cuddles me close, and we sleep.

* * *

-_A Moment of Blaine-_

Wes stops by the next day, Tuesday, and manages to catch Kurt during a few hours of manageable pain.

It worries me, this constant headache of his, but he swears to me that it's not so bad, that he has a history of migraines, so I trust him and try to make sure he eats at least a few good mouthfuls at every meal and perpetually assault him with glasses of water to ensure he stays hydrated. He rolls his eyes every time he sees me approaching with a fresh cup, and has even taken to whipping around corners to avoid me slinking after him with a chilled beverage and neon-pink swirly straw. But he drinks, and he eats, and his thank-you cheek-kisses are enough to tell me that he does appreciate being taken care of, even though '_you can get kind of creepy about it, Blaine.'_

"Want some dinner, Wes?" I ask, leading him through to the kitchen where I've been preparing a salad with chicken and garlic bread for the kids and I, and some rice with broth and unseasoned chicken for Kurt.

He sniffs in wonder at the oven, where the bread is toasting, and places a hand over his stomach.

"I had a burger at the hotel," he confesses, and straightens up with a smile, "but I will gladly risk a stomachache for whatever smells so goddamn good in here."

I nod with a grin. "Good. It's about done, so would you mind rounding up the boys? They're in the den. Jude will be happy to see you."

He shucks his suit jacket and leaves it draped over a kitchen chair, untucks his shirt and pops open the first two buttons after loosening his tie, all before bounding out of the room and down to the den, where twin squeals pierce the quiet house, followed by a dense _thump _and loud giggling. I set the dish of salad and chicken on the dining room table, spoon out Kurt's rice into a bowl, and bring it with the basket of garlic bread into the other room, as well, just as Kurt wanders in from the living room.

"Wes here?" he asks, rubbing at one eye tiredly. I ease him down into his chair, nudge him his food and a glass of apple juice, which he frowns at, and nod.

"He's getting the boys," I confirm, settling into the chair next to him. As if on cue, three pairs of feet stampede down the hall and burst into the large room. River and Jude make instantly for their chairs and begin assembling their plates, while Wes takes a mildly more dignified seat across from me and nabs a hunk of bread.

As Wes chews, he regards Kurt's pasty face. "You look like crap."

Kurt scowls, sips at his juice and toys at a piece of chicken with his fork. He chooses to disregard the statement and instead asks, "There's a reason you're here, yeah?"

The lawyer frowns in concern, but replies, "Yes. I just wanted to let you know that you really have nothing to worry about, in regards to Henry. The next couple months are mostly just going to be annoying, so I don't want you to stress out about this, okay?"

I scrunch my nose. "You came all the way from Ohio to tell him that? Phones don't work anymore?"

He scowls playfully, steals a small tomato from Jude's plate. The boy sees this as an opportunity, and quickly separates the rest of his tomatoes from his salad, piling them up on the edge of the plate closest to Wes, who eats them with a laugh.

"Well, it's not the _only _reason I'm here," he admits, digs around in his pocket before drawing out a small business card. "I've actually been coming up here just about every week for a while. Got some business, you see, just inside Boston…" he trails off, nervously hands the card over to me so that Kurt and I can hunch over it together.

It takes a moment to sink in.

"You're moving?" Kurt grins, whipping his head up to beam at Wes. "You're moving _here_!"

And when Wes nods in confirmation, Kurt is out of his seat in a hot second, pulling his best friend up and into a fierce hug. I see Jude frantically waving at River, who is trying his best to explain what's happening, and take over quickly. As soon as I tell him that his Uncle Wes is going to be living close by, Jude claps happily and beams.

"I was just recently made partner at the firm," Wes explains, still holding Kurt who doesn't seem inclined to let go anytime soon. "And he wanted to open up a section on the coast. I suggested Boston. He loved it. End of story."

"So you're running this branch?" I ask in wonder, staring down at the business card again. A name near the bottom stands out, and my jaw drops once more. "With _David_? David _Thompson_, 'Let's-Hide-Wes'-Gavel-To-Watch-Him-Sweat _David_?"

Kurt finally lets him go and wipes a bit at his eyes. Wes sees and gently runs his thumbs across Kurt's cheeks, kisses his forehead fondly. I'd be jealous if I didn't understand just what the two mean to each other.

"The very same," he states, patting Kurt's back and giving him a little push back over to his chair. He takes it with a sniffle, and blows his nose into a paper napkin. Once Wes sits back down, as well, I reach across and grip his hand tightly in mine.

"I'm so happy for you," I tell him, feeling a little choked up. Wes was there with me through some of my worst years in high school, and through some of the best in our under-grad years. I'm absolutely delighted that someone who means so much to me is going to be within easy reach once more.

"Do you have a place yet?" Kurt asks, quickly breaking up a squabble between Jude and River as to who did a better bar routine the day before at the gym. Every time I watch him sign to Jude, so fluidly for only a little over five months of study, my chest swells a bit with pride and affection that he's gone to so much effort to be able to communicate with my son. Unable to help myself, I let my hand wander over to his knee and rest it there, my thumb rubbing soft circles into his jeans.

Wes nods, nibbles at some more bread. "David and I rented a house. It's split right through, so I'm on the top floor and he's on the bottom. We've both got two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and even the deck is stacked, so it's pretty nice."

I shake my head at him in disbelief, lay my fork down on my empty plate. "Only you two could manage to find a place where, even though you're living apart, you're living in the same house."

He shrugs helplessly. "Whatever, Anderson," he states, rising to clear away his hardly-used plate and grabbing Jude's in the process.

"You done?" I turn to Kurt as Wes and the boys scamper off to the kitchen. I hear the water turn on and Wes' voice directing the boys in the rinsing of their dishes. Kurt's bowl, containing a meager portion to begin with, is only half empty, and I notice that most of what he seems to have eaten has only been rice. He gives me a sheepish look and fingers his, thankfully, empty juice glass.

"I'm still thirsty, though," he says with a little smile. I can't help but return it, and instruct him to go sit in the living room while I get him some water to drink.

Somehow in the next ten minutes, after I've loaded the dishwasher and refilled a tall glass for Kurt, the boys have coerced my partner over to the piano where he sits, fingering the keys in a tuneless little melody that makes River grimace. Even Jude, with his hands and the side of his face pressed against the belley of the instrument, frowns in disapproval.

"Alright, alright," Kurt assents, stares down at the keys for a moment in thought. I place his water on the coffee table and go to stand just behind Kurt. I rub his shoulders for a brief moment, and he pats my hands in appreciation.

"I don't think my head can handle any rollicking tune right now," he apologizes to the general assembly, "so pardon my melancholy."

River taps at the piano wood. "What are you gonna play?"

Kurt tests out a few octaves, fingers spread wide to span the eight keys between notes. "Remember when your Uncle Karl came to visit last year from Germany? And your cousin taught me how to play her favorite song?"

River nods. "I like that song, it's really pretty."

I immediately am hung up on a certain detail my darling dearest seems to have neglected to mention.

"You have family in Germany?" I ask, incredulous, and Wes smiles knowingly.

Kurt just shrugs. "Yes? I mean, my last name is _Hummel_, that's about as German as someone can get without being a _Schmidt _or a _Zimmermann_. And Uncle Karl is actually River's Great Uncle, but he doesn't really understand all that yet."

"Do you speak the language, then?"

Again, Kurt shrugs and even frowns a bit. "Enough, yes. Why are you so shocked? I know you lived in Italy for a few years when you were younger, yet you've never expressly mentioned it."

"How do you-?" I start, but one glance at a lip-biting Wes and I have my answer. "Well. Fine. But you've heard me speak Italian. I've yet to hear you speak German. Sue me, I'm excited."

Kurt makes a face, does another octave. "Don't hold your breath, I never said I was _good_."

River scoffs, an odd sound from a kid his age, and Jude sniggers. "Daddy speaks it all the time when Uncle Karl visits. He taught me some, but some of the sounds are hard to make."

I'm bouncing on my toes now, and tap at Kurt's shoulders until he rolls his eyes and starts a sweet, calm little tune on the piano. It's not a difficult song at all, but there's a definite draw in its simplicity that makes it quite beautiful.

And then he starts _singing._

"_Versteck mich wo du mich nicht findest, damit auch du mich mal vermisst._"

He's dropped his voice until it's just a bit rough, just a bit less refined, and my hands go perfectly still on his shoulders. I've never heard him sing properly before, nothing outside of a gentle humming along with the radio or a Disney movie, and his voice settles just _right _in my ears.

"_Hab mich seit Wochen nicht gemeldet, und frag mich ständig wo du bist. Ich will nur, dass du weiβt ich hab dich immer noch lieb. Und dass es am Ende auch keine andere gibt die mich so vollendet...die mich so bewegt._"

Jude has his forehead resting against the piano now, his hands to either side and the smallest, most content smile on his face. I make a note to have Kurt sing again once he's gotten his implant and learned how to hear with it.

"_Ich zeig dir dass ich dich nicht brauche, und dass ich gehen kann wann ich will. Weiβt du eigentlich wie viel ich rauche seitdem du weg bist? Und wenn du fragst dann bin ich still."_

He does the refrain again, folowed by a quick musical interlude, refrain once more, and ends it with a long, drawn-out chord. River and Wes clap while I lean down and press my lips to his temple, breathing in the scent of his hair- _coconut, he uses coconut hair products_- and whisper a 'That was wonderful, darling,' into his ear.

His shoulders rise in a shrug and he plucks at the keys again. "I'm not actually a pianist. I just watch people play and then do the same thing. Not like you, _maestro_, who can open a book and instantly play a classical symphony."

I shake my head at him, run my arms around his shoulders to tug him back against my chest and rock him from side to side.

He closes his eyes and sighs out, "My head hurts."

And so we move to the living room and drape ourselves across the furniture. Kurt sits snuggled up into my side on the couch, Jude and River sharing the loveseat and a pad of paper between them, while Wes reclines in the armchair.

"Are you going to Ohio for Thanksgiving?" Wes asks of Kurt, who nods.

"That's the plan. Blaine was going to come, as well, but Jude's appointment is the Saturday after, and he didn't want to have to cut anything short."

Wes hums. "You and the little dude can come hang out with us," he offers. "David and I are officially moving in that weekend."

I agree, tap my finger against Kurt's water glass to remind him to sip at it, which he does with another eye roll and a pat to my leg.

"Are you excited for Jude's appointment?" Wes goes on, watching as the boy in question takes the purple crayon right from River's hand, scrawls something on his side of the paper, and then places it neatly back in River's grip. "He hasn't had any problems, has he?"

"None at all, thank goodness," I confirm, watching my boy as he scribbles and colors away. "No swelling, no infection, all of his stitches are still perfectly in place. All that's left is to see if it actually _works_."

Kurt tugs his hand up to press it into my chest and turn it in calming circles. "You know perfectly well, as do I, that Jude _will _be able to hear, and he _will _learn to talk, and that you have _nothing_ to worry about."

I sigh. "But Kurt, we don't _know _that, not for sure. These things don't always work, and I don't feel right getting my hopes up when-" Kurt's hand across my lips muffles my voice until I give up entirely and kiss his palm in defeat.

"Good boy," Kurt says, turns his face into my shoulder and wiggles to get comfortable. "Now, don't move. This is the most comfortable I've been all day, and you will lose very precious parts of your person should you change that."

I gulp and cautiously wrap an arm Kurt's back to keep him pressed against me while Wes giggles from his seat.

"That goes for you, too, Wesley," Kurt mumbles, already half-asleep from the sound of it, and I smile when our friend instantly sobers.

"Sleep well," I whisper, press a long kiss to Kurt's head and leave him to rest. I occupy myself with watching as River and Jude draw a picture of four distinct individuals, two much smaller than the others, all of them holding hands inside one house.

I smile, and make a mental note to clear some space on the fridge.

* * *

Kurt's been sick for nearly five days, and I've been keeping track.

Sunday: Mild headache.

Monday: Constant headache, loss of appetite.

Tuesday: Headache worsens, loss of appetite, aches and pains.

Wednesday and today: No improvement in headache, eating, or aches, onset of low-grade, but climbing, fever.

I surmise that Kurt's coming down with the flu, and prepare to take care of a miserable partner.

The Hummels and Cooper have been staying here since Tuesday, at my insistence, so that I can keep an eye on Kurt and so that there's always someone around to take the boys where they need to go. I bake my brother a peach pie in thanks for his help, but he shrugs and says, "What else is family for?"

"One-hundred-point-six," I read off the little screen after Kurt spits the thermometer out. He grouches and wiggles deeper into the couch cushions, sips at his ice water and tugs at his sticky shirt. "Want me to get you a clean shirt?"

He sighs in defeat and nods sadly, pouts out his lip and sniffs. I laugh, kiss his hair as I rise to fetch him a non-sweaty top to wear.

As I'm going through the two drawers I've dedicated to Kurt's things, I feel a tug on my pant leg and turn around to find Jude, worried and upset.

"Is Kurt going to be okay?" he asks sharply, his hands making the signs with desperate precision.

I smile at him and crouch down, place my hands on his sides for a brief moment and give him a little squeeze. "Kurt will be fine," I tell him, making sure he takes it in. "He's probably got the flu. You know how you've gotten colds before?" Jude nods. "Well, it's like that, but it makes you feel worse for a little while. He should get better in a few days, okay?"

Jude nods again, but he doesn't look happy about it. I sigh, pat his curls. "Do you want to help him feel better?" He instantly brightens, claps his hands and jumps a little. I reach behind me and tug out a clean shirt. "Why don't we take this down so he can change, and then make some tea for him, alright?"

The little boy nabs the white t-shirt from my hands and sprints down the stairs, leaving me to follow, laughing.

In the living room, Kurt quickly removes his damp shirt and shrugs into the new one, nearly moaning at the fresh scent of laundry detergent I'm sure must be a nice change from the smell of his own sweat.

"I feel absolutely disgusting," he complains, but makes no effort to move again once he's laid back down. "Even though I took a shower this morning, I feel like I haven't had one in days."

"Yeah, well, a fever will do that to you," I remind him, balling up the used shirt in one hand. "Jude and I are going to make some tea for you. What do you want for lunch?"

Kurt's nose scrunches up at the mention of food, and he waves a hand at us.

"Toast it is," I announce, and lead my son into the kitchen to find Cooper and River working on a plate of sandwiches for the rest of us.

"What do you want on yours, B?" Cooper asks, finishing Jude's by cutting the ham-swiss-and-mustard sandwich into four triangles, just the way he likes.

I poke my head around him to see what he's working with. "Turkey, egg, lettuce, tomato, barbecue sauce."

He nods and gets to work, so I thank him and start the water on the stove for Kurt's tea, and lift Jude onto the counter so he can put two slices of bread into the toaster. By the time the water's boiled and the bag is steeping in a mug, Jude is helping me lightly butter both slices of toast. He grins as he carries the plate out to Kurt in the living room, sets it on the coffee table before him and I follow him up with the tea.

"'S there honey in that?" Kurt points to the mug and I frown.

"No? Did you want some?"

He nods stiffly, rubs at his neck a little. "Throat hurts."

I make a noise of sympathy and dart back for the honey jar, spooning two dollops into the steaming beverage for him.

"Thank you," Kurt says with a small sigh. "And sorry for being sick. I know I can get bossy when I don't feel well."

That makes me grin, and I shoo Jude into the dining room for his own lunch before I take a seat next to Kurt on the couch.

"You're sick, being bossy is your _right_." I reach out a hand and press the back of it to Kurt's forehead. "Eat some of this toast so we can get some more medicine in you. Your fever's not bad, but we don't want it to get too much worse."

He grumps, but swallows down half a piece of toast between sips of tea before pushing the plate away.

"Is your head any better?" I ask, gathering up his dishes. When he shakes his head, I frown. The fever, sore throat, and achy joints are expected from the flu, but the five-day headache doesn't entirely fit. I shake my head a bit to clear it, assure myself that I'm overreacting, and head to the kitchen to drop off the dishes before joining the boys and Cooper for lunch.

* * *

Kurt insists on helping put the boys to bed.

Over the last month or two, Jude has been helping me create River's own space for when he stays over, and thus one corner of Jude's room now officially belongs to the boy. There isn't a bed or even a mattress, as I hadn't wanted to come off as presumptuos, but the thick air bed stays in Jude's closet and gets set up right next to the dresser, which has one drawer full of spare clothes for the other boy. A specially-bought foam mattress pad and sheet set- red, Jude had demanded, as that is River's favorite color now- also remain in the room. Two pillows finish the bed, and space on the bathroom counter for an extra toothbrush, plus River's specific shampoo, conditioner, and soap in the shower basket, round off the obvious footprint the Hummel boys have left on us Andersons.

Kurt stands in the hall, leaning heavily against the bathroom's doorframe as he waits for River to finish changing into his pajamas and brush his teeth. I'm already in the room with Jude, checking, as I do every night, the small incision behind his right ear. I've been monitoring it daily, checking for infection and swelling, and regularly wiping it down with an antiseptic. As it's been nearly two weeks since the surgery, the cut is healing nicely, and it shouldn't be long now before he gets to wear the external components and get tuned in to his new ear.

Finally, after Jude's selected a book and crawled impatiently into my lap, River and Kurt shuffle in. The little boy jogs over and hops up onto Jude's bed, curls right up against my side so he can see the book, too. Kurt follows much more slowly, more or less falls onto the mattress, and simply leans back until his head hits the pillow behind him. Chuckling, but still concerned, I pat his knee and crack open the third _Harry Potter_ novel. Jude wriggles around, shoves his face into my shoulder and presses his hand against my neck as usual, and I begin to read.

When I stop after a few chapters, Jude is just about asleep, and River is blinking tiredly. Kurt heaves himself up to carry River across the room and deposit him in bed. They have a quick, whispered conversation that I can't hear as I shuffle around to slide my sleeping son under his covers and give him a kiss goodnight. When I straighten up, Kurt is switching on the nightlight, so I turn off the lamp and we leave the mostly-dark room in silence, letting the door remain cracked instead of closed, just in case.

"You should probably get some sleep," I tell Kurt, grab his elbow as he sways a bit. "Rest will help your fever."

Kurt doesn't protest when I drag him to my bedroom and toss him gently onto the covers. He only complains when the movement jostles him, and he leans heavily to one side, grappling at the side of the mattress for purchase.

"Whoa," I mutter, quickly reaching to steady him. "You okay?"

He closes his eyes, swallows, then nods. "Head rush. Moved too fast."

"Sorry," I grimace, and he flashes a tired smile at me.

"Not your fault. I'm the one that's sick."

Much less startlingly, I ease him back until he's lying flat, tug the covers out from under him and then wrap him up in them. Sometime before dinner, he'd declared himself much too warm for anything more than his underwear and a thin, well-worn t-shirt of mine, but the way he's shivering now makes me think his fever is getting worse.

"I'll be right back," I whisper to him, kiss his warm forehead. "We're going to take your temperature again."

I dash into the bathroom and snatch up the little device, adding a bottle of aspirin and a cool, damp cloth to my arms after a moment of thought. After inserting the thermometer into his mouth, I gently drape the cloth over his closed eyes. He hisses, but then groans a bit as the cloth takes away some of the heat. The thermometer beeps, and reads one-hundred-and-one, even.

Worrying my lower lip between my teeth, I leave Kurt to rest and head downstairs to where Cooper is futzing around in the kitchen, dumping two slices of peach pie onto two plates and then scooping two generous heaps of ice cream on top. He grins when he spots me.

"One plate of comfort food and a caring older brother, coming right up," he cheeks, stuffs the leftover pie in the fridge and the ice cream in the freezer, then grabs up the plates and uses his shoulders to push me out into the living room. Once settled on the couch, we eat in silence for a few minutes until I really take a look at my plate and frown.

"You know, as a doctor, I don't condone this type of eating," I remark, yet shove a creamy, dripping peach slice into my mouth.

Cooper swallows before speaking. "Yeah, but as a twenty-eight-year-old guy with a kid who's just gotten surgery and a boyfriend who's got a really awful flu?"

"Manna from heaven," I concede, spooning up some more dessert.

Another short silence passes, but it's long enough for the both of us to clear our plates and leave them empty and unwashed on the coffee table.

"What's going through your head, little brother?" Cooper asks, turning his body to face me on the couch, one leg pulled up onto the cushion and his head leaning inquisitively to the side.

I sigh, push myself farther into the back of the couch and draw my feet up onto the seat, tucking my chin over my knees and wrapping my arms around my shins.

"His fever's gone up," I admit. "Nothing's helping him. The medicines don't work, cool showers don't work. He's not eating, he hardly talks, and something about it doesn't feel right."

Cooper just shrugs, entirely unconcerned. "It's the flu, Blaine. Some people get hit harder than others. He's probably just got one of the really nasty kinds."

I shake my head. "No, Coop, it doesn't feel like just the flu anymore. But he's not sick enough for me to take him in for some tests, so I don't know what it is."

"Well, there's the silver lining then, right? He's not _that _sick. And he probably won't _get _that sick." Cooper pauses, tilts his head in thought. "I bet you twenty bucks and another peach pie that he's perfectly healthy by Monday."

I snort, rub my face in a slightly sweaty hand. "You're ridiculous."

Cooper shrugs as if to say, 'I try', and then turns serious once more. "Is there anything else, though? This doesn't just seem like the Sick Boyfriend Blues you're singing."

Another silence, and Cooper waits me out as I poke at my bare toes and let the things in my head sort themselves out into something I can understand. Finally, I turn to rest my cheek on my knee, facing my big brother, and speak.

"Kurt's the kind of guy you marry, Coop," I whisper, like it's some well-kept secret, locked away in a safe and buried under books. "He's the kind of guy that you grab onto, and you don't ever let him go because there is literally no one better, and you _know _it, so even when you're fucking _terrified _of being with him, you still hang on because you won't ever get another chance if you let go."

Cooper stills, lets it sink in, then asks, "You're scared to be with him?"

I nod, then shake my head, then nod again. "I'm scared…that one of us is going to get hurt again, and whether it's me or him doesn't matter, because either way it will _break me_, Coop." There's a pressure in my eyes now, the very beginnings of tears that are rapidly swelling. I sniff, as if that will keep them away longer. "If he hurts me like Paul did, or hurts Jude like Paul did, I don't think I'll ever be able to move on from that. I won't ever let myself trust someone or love them, because I'll be too scared of getting hurt again. And if I'm the one that hurts Kurt, that makes _him _scared of _me_, then I will have ruined one of the only two perfect things in my life, and that frightens the _shit _out of me."

A large hand settles on my back and slides up and down in big, soothing strokes, occasionally coming up to smooth at my hair before returning to the gentle movement.

"What brought all this on?" he asks quietly, never ceasing the movement of his hand.

I swallow thickly, clear my throat, and answer, "On Halloween, I told him I love him." Pause. Sniff. "And he said he couldn't say it back, not yet, but that he will someday."

"And did that scare you, too?"

I nod, feel a tear down my cheek and leave it be. "What if someday never comes? I love him so much, Coop, it feels like _too _much, but it's not just me. I have Jude, and I swore to myself, after Paul left, that I would _never_ trust anybody else with him again. It's been five months, Cooper. Only five months and Kurt's already like his second father. What if this hurts _him_? How do I let my kid get hurt _twice _by people he thinks of as family?"

Cooper sighs, a big brother I'm-about-to-tell-you-something-you-probably-don't -want-to-hear kind of sigh.

"Blaine," he begins, settles his hand in one spot up near the base of my neck, "you're gonna fuck up with him. It's, like, the _rule_." At my pained whine, he squeezes my neck gently and continues. "_But_, as long as you keep doing what you feel is best for him, and as long as _he _knows that you love him more than life, he is going to be _fine._"

I don't quite believe him, it doesn't seem possible, how can anyone, least of all a child, be okay after having his family torn apart around him _twice_? As always, Coop reels me back in from my own head with his no-nonsense tone and a firm shoulder-squeeze.

"How do you feel when you drop Jude off with him?" he asks me, his voice low and serious.

I shrug. "Fine. Mostly. I miss my kid, and I miss Kurt and River when I'm at work, but, for the most part, it feels kind of the same as leaving him with you."

Cooper nods. "And how do you feel when you leave him with me?"

"Fine, Cooper," I roll my eyes at him. "You're my big brother, and I know you love Jude just as much as I do."

He pokes at my shoulder with a stiff finger. "No attitude, please, this is important. Now, how do you feel about Kurt and River? Is River happy? Do you feel that he's safe with his dad?"

My eyes go wide at the implications and I raise my head to scoff at my big brother. "Coop! What kind of question is that? Of _course_ River's safe with him, Kurt's the one that got them _away_ from an unsafe environment, and he's done _everything _for his boy. I don't believe for a second that Kurt wouldn't move a mountain or two or _nine_ if it meant that River would be happy."

At this Cooper gives me a rather obvious look, and I suddenly feel like I've been on the receiving end of these looks far too often recently.

"So," he draws out the word, a small smile on his face, "if Kurt would do all of that for his own kid, and he loves Jude _like _his own kid, why in the _hell _are you scared that he'll hurt Jude?"

He says this like I don't already know it, but I do, and I shake my head because this isn't the _point_, I've never feared for Jude's _physical _safety around Kurt, but his _emotional _safety.

"You don't have to hit someone to hurt them, Coop," I remind him. "If Kurt decides he doesn't love me, can't e_ver_ love me, then Jude and I are alone again and he'll be _miserable_."

Cooper sighs next to me, drops his hand and leans into the back of the couch, closing his eyes. "Squirt, honestly, Kurt said 'yet', didn't he? Not that he doesn't love you yet, but that he can't _say _it yet. That sounds to me like he already loves you, _both_ of you, and maybe he's just as scared as you are about this. The two of you have so much in common when it comes to your past relationships, _of course_ you're both terrified, so pardon him if he hasn't found his courage yet to lay himself out like that."

There's a long silence. I rest my head back onto my knees and tighten my grip on my legs. There sounds a steady hum through the house, the wiring is old in places and loud in its age, and the appliances in the kitchen a room over fairly thrum with energy. Cooper stays propped up on his side with his eyes closed, his arms now folded across his front and his face relaxed, entirely sure of himself.

"You really think so, Coop?" My voice is small, timid. I feel about five years old sitting curled up on the couch seeking comfort from my brother.

Cooper cracks an eyes open, flings a lazy hand out to rest it on my bare foot, giving my toes an affectionate tug. "Buddy, I am _damn _sure that you and Kurt are going to get married, sooner rather than later, adopt each others' kids, and then have at _least _two more, probably through adoption." He closes the one eye again as if that were that and nothing could change it.

It makes me smile.

"I like that idea."

He grins, pats my leg. "I'll take you ring shopping after the New Year, hmm?"

I snort out a laugh, shove him away, and yawn. He stretches himself out and blinks his eyes open, stands up before leaning back down to pull me by the arms from the couch until I'm standing with him.

"Go to bed, little brother," he says, tugs me into a warm, big-brother hug. "You'll feel better when you're with Kurt."

I nod, grip him tighter for a second and let go. "Good night, Cooper."

He's already shuffling out of the living room, waves tiredly over his shoulder at me before mounting the stairs. I make quick work of our dessert plates, set the dishwasher to run, and then lock up the house before following him up and turning into my bedroom.

On my way through to the bathroom, I pause at the bed and push my wrist to Kurt's forehead. He's sprawled out, kicked the sheets down his legs and tossed his shirt to the floor. The sweat on his chest gleams a bit in the low light, his cheeks are red and so is his neck down to his collar bones. With a worried frown, I kiss his temple and continue on for a quick shower. Afterwards, dried and dressed, I come out with a cool, damp cloth, use it to wipe the sleeping man down, then rinse it out and simply let it rest, unfolded, across his chest. He squirms tiredly, snuffles into the pillow and then calms. When I touch the cloth, it's already warmed through. Biting my lip I nip downstairs to grab an icepack from the freezer, wrap it in a tea towel, and dash back up to Kurt where I slip it under his neck. He flinches, whines, tosses his head, and settles once again.

With a sigh, I lower myself down into bed next to him, flick off the lamp, and set my alarm to go off in two hours so I can replace the cold pack. After a last, long look at Kurt's agitated, uncomfortable face, I join him in sleep.

* * *

"Here, Anderson," Liza says, pushes a tall waxed-cardboard cup into my hand and curls my fingers around it.

I'm slumped up against the front desk at the main entrance to the hospital, three hours into my shift and absolutely exhausted. Between waking every two hours in attempts to cool Kurt's overheated body, and sleeping fitfully, if at all, in between, it's a wonder I've managed to even stay upright so far.

"You're an angel," I tell her, sip at the hot drink and close my eyes. "Thank _god _it's a slow day. I don't know what I'll do if someone decides to tank."

She t_sk_s at me, swats my arm before filing away a manilla folder in one of the cabinets behind the desk. "Talk like that, and they all will. Do you have any consultations today?"

I nod, sip a bit more at my coffee. She really is perfect; she got me the largest size. "Two, after lunch. A baby girl, probably Dravet Syndrome, she's been here before. And a little boy, three, I think, sounds like Rolandic."

"Isn't that what Jude has?" Liza asks, pulls some forms from an organizer on her desks and snaps them into a clipboard.

I nod. "I had it, too, when I was a kid."

She nods, sets the clipboard up on the counter and sets a pen on top of it. "How's Kurt doing? Any changes?"

With a shake of my head, I grimace. "His fever's gone up again, one-oh-one-point-four, now. If it isn't coming down by tonight I'm going to take him to the hospital. He's been pretty good about staying hydrated, but apparently he's going'to need a bit of a push to get rid of this flu."

Liza frowns, taps at the top of her desk and watches a young woman and a small girl enter through the glass doors and veer off for the elevators.

"You're sure it's the flu?" she asks, assembles another clipboard of forms.

Another gulp of coffee. I feel a bit more alert now, a bit more capable. "Fever, headache, achy joints, loss of appetite, and he had the sniffles just before this."

She hums in agreement, smiles a little. "Just keep an eye on him, yeah? These things can go south pretty quick if you're not paying attention."

I straighten up off the counter and twist my back a bit to work out a kink. "Coop's got him. I have him calling every hour to keep me posted." I turn to glance at the wall clock and sigh. "I should go do rounds before lunch. Thanks again for the coffee, Liza."

She waves away my thanks with a happy smile, turns to sit at her computer as I make my way to the elevator bank and hit the 'up' arrow, ready to get back to work.

* * *

"Kurt? Cooper?" I call through the house as I step inside and toe off my shoes. I drape my coat in the closet and tug at my scrubs top, pulling it off over my head to leave me in a simple, white t-shirt. The house is quiet, which was never too strange in the past- having a deaf son, there's never been an abundance of noise- but now it feels foreboding. With four people here, and considering one of them is my often over-exuberant brother, the lack of a welcome sits queasy in my stomach.

Frowning, I meander throught to the living room, then the kitchen and dining area, but find no one. Feeling terribly unsettled now I check my phone- no messages, no texts, no missed calls- and take the stairs two at a time before rounding the corner at a jog and tumbling into Jude's room.

_Oh, thank goodness._

Jude and River are sitting quietly amidst River's blankets, pillows piled up around them and each with a book in their lap. Jude spots me first, waves hello and beckons me over.

"What's going on, boys?" I ask, relieved, only to be shushed by River.

"Uncle Cooper says we have to be quiet," the boy states with his hands, a stern look on his chubby face. "Daddy's sleeping."

"Not anymore," a voice says from the door, and I turn around to see Cooper smiling tightly while propped against the frame. "He just woke up, went downstairs for some water."

I nod, ruffle Jude's hair and then River's, and stand to follow my brother into the hall.

"How was he today?" I ask, dreading the answer while still hoping for good news. When Coop shakes his head, my heart drops into my stomach.

"His fever's up just a bit, one-oh-one-point-six, and his neck's been bothering him all day," he explains while I toss my scrub top into my room, not caring where it lands.

Then, something Cooper's just said makes me freeze.

"His neck?"

My brother nods, confused. "Well, and his elbows and knees and shoulders, but mostly his neck. He says it hurts like a bitch to move."

I feel a little faint, quite frightened, and thoroughly disgusted with myself that I couldn't spot it sooner. With a lurch I barrel down the stairs and stumble into the living room just as Kurt ambles in from the kitchen.

"Blaine!" he says, and sways over to the couch where he plops down, sloshes some of the water in his glass over himself. "Oh. Whoops." He paws at the wet spot, then shrugs and sips at the remaining water in his cup. "Mmm," he hums, sets the glass on the coffee table and closes his eyes as he leans back against the couch. "I love this couch. I mean, I _love _this couch! Too bad it doesn't make my head hurt less. Blaine. Blaine! I changed my mind- your couch _sucks._"

My breath is somewhere stuck in my lungs, and it feels like my blood is having a hard time getting through my veins. But when Kurt giggles and waves a hand about in airy dismissal, I find myself moving before my thoughts are even half-formed.

"Cooper," I say quite calmly, moving to hoist Kurt up by the arms and half-carry him out to the front hall. "Stay here with the boys, I'll text you once he's settled at the hospital."

Coop sputters, eyes wide and trained intently on me as I stuff my phone and wallet into one pocket, pat Kurt down to make sure he has his, and scoop up the car keys with my unoccupied hand.

"The hospital?" he squeaks. "What for? What's wrong? Blaine!"

I've got the door open and Kurt mostly through it, so I toss my head back and shout, "You're probably going to need to bring the boys, and yourself, for some tests in a couple of hours. Kurt's got meningitis."

I hardly hear his hushed '_Fuck!_' as I fight to keep a level head while tucking Kurt into my car before I pull out and speed for Boston, hoping that I've caught it in enough time to prevent any lasting damage to his brain.

_Fuck_, indeed.

* * *

_A/N: The song is "Ich Will Nur" by Philipp Poisel and translates roughly to, "I hide where you won't find me, so you'll miss me once in a while. I haven't contacted you in weeks, and constantly wonder where you are. I just want you to know that I still love you, and that, in the end, there's no one else who completes me like you do...who moves me as you do. I show you that I don't need you, and that I can leave whenever I want. Do you know how much I smoke since you've gone? And when you ask, then I'm silent."_

_Thanks for reading! I've done a lot of research for this part and the upcoming chapters on meningitis, but I may still fuck something up. My apologies if I do._


	10. -And Suddenly, Flames Everywhere

Kurt's been installed in a private room, had a syringe of spinal fluids taken, and is now sleeping soundly, hooked up to a glucose drip and a powerful antibiotic.

Upon arrival at the Emergency Room, after explicitly stating the nature of Kurt's illness so that he could be seen right away and so that no one but the doctor could get too close to him, I'd dug out his insurance card and identification to fill out the monstrous pile of forms and then had been directed straight to the pharmacy on the next level to pick up a bottle of preventative antibiotics.

Now, I'm sitting on a hard plastic chair down in the main waiting room, watching for Cooper to come in with the kids. I've just taken my first dose, and am anxious to get the boys started on theirs. If Jude contracts the full-fledged illness, it could do devastating damage and cause him to have his implant taken out. I let out a long-held breath when the automatic doors swish open and Cooper strolls in with River in his arms and Jude trailing just behind, one hand reaching up with a finger hooked into a belt loop on his Uncle's jeans.

As soon as he sees me, River wiggles violently out of Cooper's arms and sprints across the waiting room, straight into my arms. He tightens his arms around my neck and his legs around my chest, and all I can do is squeeze him tight to me while he cries messily into my shoulder. After a little while, his sobs turn to watery, choked-off mumbles that I can't understand until he turns his head to press his wet nose into my neck.

"_Papa, papa, papa,_" he's crying, and it makes my throat swell up and my heart hurt. "_Papa, where's daddy? Papa, I wanna see my daddy, please, papa, please._"

And now I'm crying and cradling him close because he's called me _Papa_, and I know he's a terrified little boy and he might not know exactly what he's saying right now, but I've never been called _Papa _or even _Daddy_ before. I never thought I would, but all of a sudden I _ache _for the day Jude can say the same.

_I want to be a 'Papa'. I want to be a 'Papa' to both of you, so much._

Another few minutes and River's cried himself out, gone limp over my shoulder, but he isn't asleep. Cooper gently leads us to the front desk, where I explain the situation once more, and the two nurses on duty immediately fly into action, bearing forms for River, Jude, and Cooper each, and brandishing pens.

Within the hour, all three of them have been given a bottle of pills with detailed instructions as to when and how to take them over the next few days. I've led them up to Kurt's room on the third floor, and helped River up to sit in the bed with his father. Jude's sharing a chair with Cooper, sitting on his Uncle's lap and alternately staring anxiously at the bed and hiding his face in my brother's t-shirt, while I turn Kurt's phone over and over in my hands.

"What'cha got there, B?" Cooper whispers, brings up a hand to cup the back of Jude's head and finger his curls.

I wave the little device at him. "I called Kurt's work. Explained. I don't know how long he'll be here, and I don't know who all he's close to there. Some of them might have been exposed. I called Wes, too. He'll be here soon."

Cooper looks hesitant, sees that the screen is lit up on a particular person. He nods at it, asks, "Who are you going to call now?"

I look down at the screen, thumb at it to wake it up when it goes dark, and watch as the little black letters come into focus once more.

_Burt Hummel_

I don't say anything, but Cooper seems to understand, anyway. "Want me to take the kids? I heard there's pudding in the cafeteria."

With a shake of my head I lean forward to kiss first Kurt's still-fevered brow, and then River's much cooler one. He offers a small smile in return, wipes at his steel-grey eyes.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?" I tell him, and he nods.

"You're gonna call Grandpa?" he whispers, twists his fingers into the thin blanket covering Kurt.

"I'm going to call your Grandpa, yes," I assure him, run a hand through his messy hair and straighten again to turn to Jude.

After a quick kiss and snuggle with my boy, I find myself pacing down the busy hall to a much quieter little alcove near the back of the hospital. There's a large bay window, with two small couches in front and a table with several severely outdated magazines resting on top. I sit gingerly on one, turn to press my back into the arm rest and curl my legs up underneath me. A single nurse walks by, nods and gives a smile, before she turns the corner and disappears.

I grit my teeth, inhale, exhale, and hit _dial_.

It rings twice before a breathless, happy voice picks up on the other end with a jovial, "_Kurt! We were wondering when you'd call, you missed us on Skype last night. We need to talk about Thanksgiving. Now, I know you and River are driving down, but what about this boy-?_"

"Sir?" I interrupt, feeling thoroughly nauseated by now and I swallow twice to help clear my throat.

"_You're not Kurt,_" the deep voice states, changing from exuberant to anxious in a heartbeat. "_Where is Kurt? Why have you got his phone? Who are you?_"

Swallowing isn't working, so I cough a little before saying, "Sir, Kurt's at Boston Medical, I brought him in-"

"_Stop right there,_" Burt Hummel orders, and through the line I can hear rapid shifting, shuffling, and muted voices. "_You said Boston Medical? What happened? Who are you?"_

"Mr. Hummel, Sir, my name is Blaine Anderson and I'm dating your son," I reply calmly, "and he came down with what I thought was the flu about five days ago."

From somewhere on the other end of the line, I hear a male voice shout, "_I've got them, eight-thirty, we can make it if we leave now." _And then Burt's gruff voice comes back on, clear as day, and says, "_My kid doesn't have the flu, does he?_"

"No, sir," I confirm, and the man huffs at me.

"_Would you stop that?_" he grouses, and a door slams followed quickly by the sound of car doors banging open and shut. "_My name is Burt. Now. Tell me why Kurt is in the goddamn hospital._"

"Meningitis," I squeak, feeling another wave of inadequacy wash over me. I'm a goddamn _doctor_, and I couldn't catch it any sooner. Who knows what complications Kurt could end up with, this infection can be _devastating_, and it's all my fault.

I don't realize I'm nearly hyperventilating until Burt's stern voice cuts through my panicked mind and demands that I take several deep, even breaths. When I've calmed a bit, and wiped at the tears on my face halfheartedly, he asks for the hospital's address and Kurt's room number.

"_We should be there before midnight,_" he goes on. "_Will you be staying with him?_"

I nod, even though he can't see me. "Yes, sir. Burt. Yes, I will."

"_What about River? I'd rather him go home and get some sleep, but if you're going to be staying…_"

"I was going to send the boys home soon, with Cooper. My brother. He'll stay with them at my house, if that's okay."

There's a grunt on the line, the sounds of traffic, and I do hope he isn't the one driving. I sigh in relief when I hear a soft female voice asking if she's to take the upcoming turn, or the next one.

"_Has he looked after River before?_"

"Oh, yes," I assure him. "He coaches River and Jude at the gym, as well. He's really wonderful with kids, I promise."

A short silence before Burt asks, "_Jude is your boy, yes?_"

I nod, remember he can't see me, and say, "Yes, he is."

"_He and River get along?"_

I laugh at that, and it's a little watery, but I push past the tight feeling in my throat. "Like you wouldn't believe."

There's a quick little huff from Burt, and I take it as a laugh because when he speaks next, it sounds like he's smiling. "_You and Kurt will have to tell me what they get up to when he's feeling better._"

"Absolutely, sir," I beam, rest my head against the back of the small couch.

"_We're pulling into the airport, kid. Our plane leaves in forty minutes. If anything happens before then, you call me._"

"I certainly will, sir."

"_Burt._"

"I certainly will, Burt."

"_Good. Take care of him._"

And the line goes dead.

* * *

Not too long after, Cooper scoops up the boys with the intent to take them back to my house for some sleep. River, however, pitches an almighty fit in the hospital hallway, screams and cries and thrashes about until I take him up and promise he'll come back first thing tomorrow, with his grandparents, no less, but he still only lets me go when I agree to come with them to put them to bed. It's tense for a moment when River realizes that he came in Cooper's car, but relaxes when I carry him over to my Rolls, instead. He waves to Jude and Cooper, and lets me buckle him into Jude's backseat booster. Thankfully I'd made Cooper get a spare seat for in his car, just in case, so I know Jude will be safely strapped in, as well.

River has calmed considerably by the time our two cars pull into my long drive, but he still refuses to part from me for more than a moment or two, and fidgets incessantly when he isn't either holding my hand, or wrapped up in my arms. Jude looks a little put out, and still quite shaken, so after I manage to convince River to take a shower, "_By yourself, River, you're perfectly capable, and I'll be right outside,_" I settle Jude in my lap, snuggled up in my bed, and let him process.

The sniffles start first, then some shuffling and snorting before he starts crying in earnest, and I do all I can to let him know that he's going to be okay; pats to his back and hair, his fingers pressed to my neck as I hum. I wait it out, gently rocking him in my arms and when he quiets down I sigh in relief. This whole day has been draining, in about a hundred different ways, and I just want everything and everyone to be alright again.

"He's going to get better?" Jude asks, his hands slow and lethargic. I reach over to my nightstand and pluck a tissue out of the box for him. He takes it with a sheepish little smile, looks pointedly at the wet stain he's left on my shirt. I wave away his concern and he blows his nose.

"The doctors are giving him lots of good medicine," I tell the boy, who simply holds his used tissue in his lap. "I don't know what he'll be like when he wakes up, but he _will _wake up, I promise."

Jude nods, leans around to toss his tissue in the little plastic trash bin next to the bed just as River comes skidding into the room. He bounds across the floor and takes a leap onto the bed, crawls up and snuggles into my side contentedly.

"Your turn, Jude, go take a shower," I sign to my son, and he goes with a nod and a wet kiss to my cheek.

"We'll read when I come back?" he asks, just before he leaves the room proper.

I nod at him, and smile reassuringly. "Absolutely. We'll be in your room, okay?"

He grins and trots off, leaving me to haul a very tired, very non-cooperative River across the hall and into Jude's grey room. With him draped over my shoulder, I grab another _Harry Potter_ book from the shelf and turn to situate the both of us against Jude's pillows. River tucks himself under my arm and sucks a thumb into his mouth. I know that Kurt doesn't like him to, but I figure that, circumstances being what they are, a little self-soothing can certainly be permitted.

Cooper ambles in just a few minutes later, toting a mostly-damp Jude behind him. He must have rushed his shower, because his hair is streaming water down into the towel around his neck. I roll my eyes and, when he's close enough, nip the towel from him and sling it over his head, rubbing out his wet curls until they've fluffed up a bit and are no longer soaking. Jude climbs up, settles on my chest as usual, and I toss the towel onto the floor while Cooper sits across from me at the foot of the bed, all three of them watching in silence as I crack open the book, clear my throat, and begin to read.

Two chapters in, and both young boys are entirely passed out.

Cooper helps me slither out from underneath them, and when River whines in discontent, Jude shuffles over in his sleep, letting River grab onto him hold him close as he calms and settles again. The nightlight goes on, the lamp goes off, and then my brother and I are in my room, him watching from the bed as I pack a quick bag in preparation to stay at the hospital.

"His family is coming in?" Coop asks, crosses his legs underneath himself.

I nod, grab two sets of folded scrubs from a shelf in my closet. There's really no point in packing jeans and dress shirts, when there's an almost definite chance I'll be vomited on, bled on, sweated on, or all three when Kurt wakes up. With that in mind I pause, grab another set, and shove it into the bag, as well. A glance at the clock tells me it's a little after half-past-nine.

"A couple hours, plus some," I tell him, toss my razor, soap and shampoo into a plastic baggie and chuck it into my backpack. "If any of them don't want to stay at the hospital, I'm going to send them here, so don't freak if someone comes knocking at two in the morning."

Cooper nods, zips up my bag when I've finished. "I'll make some coffee, then, and camp out downstairs. Keep me posted."

I grab a white hoodie and toss it on over my t-shirt, still wearing the dark blue scrub pants from my earlier shift at the Children's Hospital.

_Work. I need to call them, take out some emergency leave._

Bag on my back, and with one quick peek in the boys' room, I'm out the front door and in my car, fully prepared for a night of little to no sleep.

* * *

Back at the hospital, I shove through the glass front doors and am promptly hoisted into the air by two strong arms wrapped around my middle. Wes, the assailant, buries his face in my chest for a moment before dropping me down, only to re-attach his arms around my neck.

"_Blaine_," he chokes, and yet another person begins to cry on me. I'd laugh, but all I have the energy to do is wrap my arms around my best friend's back and hold on tight.

Eventually, a dry-eyed Wes follows me upstairs and to Kurt's room, where he rushes over to the bed and sits down on the edge, brushes back Kurt's messy bangs and grabs one limp hand in his own. He's just staring down at his best friend when he suddenly jolts.

"Burt!" he exclaims, quite frantic. "I need to call Burt." And he fumbles in his trousers for his phone. I notice that he's still wearing suit pants and a nice shirt, but there are wrinkles in both and the shirt is half-untucked, with a few buttons undone up top. I reach over and lay a steady hand over his.

"I already did. They'll be here soon."

Wes heaves out a breath, leans forward, and braces his head in his palms, rubs at eyes with the heels of his hands. He's just lifted his head up and begun to reach for Kurt's hand again when the man on the bed twitches once, twice, then starts to writhe in rhythmic, jerky movements, one of his monitors beeping erratically.

In a flash, Wes is off the bed and I've taken his place, hitting the 'call' button on Kurt's bed while keeping one eye on the time, and the other on the seizing man. Without warning, Kurt gurgles and chokes, still entirely unconscious.

"Shit, he's vomiting," I mutter, quickly roll him towards me and onto his side and grapple at the tray table where I'd seen a small bulb syringe, getting a hand on it quickly and using it to suction out his mouth. When the doctor and a nurse rush in, I call out, "Eighteen seconds," and the man in the white coat nods, moving to stand on the other side of the bed. He takes out a little pen light, lifts up Kurt's eyelids and directs the beam at his pupils, then feels at Kurt's rigid arms and heaving chest. The nurse hands him a small syringe, which he sticks straight into the port on Kurt's I.V. tube and jams the plunger down.

Finally, after ninety-three seconds, the seizing slows, then stops.

When the doctor declares everything stable- and I've taken a good look at the monitors, as well- he leaves the nurse and I to clean up the mess that's been made of the bed. Wes, still pale, shaky, and dumbstruck along the wall, slides down to sit heavily on the floor while I manouevre my partner around so that the nurse can yank out the soiled sheets from under him. When she returns with a fresh set, I drag a chair over next to the bed, lift Kurt up into my arms, and sit down with him in my lap- mindful of his needle and tubing- so that she can make the bed, unimpeded. As I settle the unconscious man back into the clean pillows and tug the woven blanket up over his chest, Wes seems to find his feet again and approaches cautiously.

"Holy _fuck_," he breathes, staring once more at Kurt's still form, but this time in something akin to horror.

I frown and nod in agreement, then grimace down at the small splatters of saliva and vomit on my scrub pants. Thankfully, Kurt had missed getting any on the hoodie I'd forgotten to take off, so I remove it immediately as a precaution before snatching up my bag and retreating to the en-suite bathroom to change and wash up a bit. I hadn't noticed the sweat beading around my lips, nose and hairline during the commotion, but now I just feel sticky and tired and stretched so very, very thin. I look in the mirror, and have to refrain from groaning out loud.

_I look like a hot mess. No…not a hot mess. Just a mess._

With a sigh, I straighten up, and return to the room.

* * *

Burt Hummel charges into Kurt's hospital room in a blur, stalking straight across to the bed and leaning over his son to whisper soothingly at him.

A woman and a younger man have followed them in, and both look apprehensive, so I swallow my nerves and walk up to them, hand outstretched.

"Hello, Mrs. Hummel? I'm Blaine Anderson, I'm-" She doesn't let me finish, just hauls me into a hug and squeezes tight. Thankfully, she doesn't cry, just sort of rocks us back and forth for a moment until the younger man gently pries her away from me with a small laugh.

"Let him breathe, mom," he admonishes, but she swats him away with a huff.

"Quiet, Finn, and go see your brother," she tells him, shoving him over towards the bed. As she takes me by the arm and strolls us around to the other side of the room, I will Wes to come back with that coffee he'd promised me. It's twelve minutes past midnight, and the night is only going to get longer.

"How are you, sweetheart?" Mrs. Hummel asks, steering the both of us down onto the couch under the window, all the while leaving our arms intertwined.

I shrug, nod, and shrug again. "I'll be fine, I suppose," I admit, glance over at Kurt for a moment. "It's just a waiting game right now. Waiting for him to wake up, to see what's been damaged, and how long it'll last."

She coos and strokes at my hair a bit. It's an odd feeling, wanting to both cringe away from her hand and lean into it at the same time. My mother was never fond of the gesture, didn't much like to touch or be touched, but Kurt always seems to adore tangling his fingers in my curls. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it coming from Mrs. Hummel, so I remain perfectly still and let her fuss over me. I endure several long minutes of her mothering, '_Have you eaten? Slept? Maybe you should take a walk and clear your head? I'll go scrounge up some soup, do you have a preference?_' before Burt runs a gentle hand across his son's cheek, stands from the bed, and looks over at me.

"Those doctors are going to come in, and they're going to say a lot of things I won't understand," he states, moving to lean against the foot railing. "Do me a favor, and give it to me straight and simple. What does he have? What does it do? What happens when he wakes up?"

I swallow, and Mrs. Hummel goes to take her turn at Kurt's bedside.

"Well," I start, "it's called 'Bacterial Meningitis'. There are other things can cause it, but for Kurt it's a bacteria that has infected the membranes surrounding his brain and spinal cord."

Burt grunts. "It doesn't sound like this is something easy to come by. How did he get it?"

I shake my head at that. "I can't tell you exactly where he got it, but meningitis is surprisingly easy to come across. It's not quite as easily passed as the cold or flu, but the mechanism is the same. Someone sneezing or coughing near him would be sufficient to pass it on."

"And what about after?" Burt goes on, while Mrs. Hummel speaks quietly to both Finn and Kurt. "Is he coming out of this the same way he came in?"

At that, the door slides open and Wes squeezes in, carrying a tall, steaming, waxed-paper cup that dispenses the strong smell of coffee into the room. He nods at Burt as he passes, hands off the beverage to me, and then returns to shake the man's hand and give him a quick, reassuring embrace. I sip at the cup and try to find the right words.

"There may be…complications," I say, and at Burt's murderous gaze, quickly add on, "Nothing life-threatening! But think about it. The infection is so close to his brain, there's really no predicting what, if anything, has been damaged or altered."

"We won't know until he wakes up?" Finn asks from his stance near the head of the bed.

I shake my head, and Burt points to the hanging drip bags. "So, what are those?"

Another sip of coffee, then one more, "That is a mix of about three different antibiotics. They're sort of a catch-all until his lab reports come back. Once they know the general bacteria causing the inflammation, they'll change to a more specific antibiotic to combat it more efficiently."

Burt looks tired, leaning heavily against the bed. I motion for him to take the seat next to me on the couch, and he does so with a weary sigh.

"He _will _wake up," Burt states, but tacks on a hesitant, "Right?"

I nod, assure him, "Yes. Not to be blunt, but if he hasn't died yet, that means we caught it in plenty of time."

The man shudders, and I flinch, but I'm just about too tired to care about being delicate anymore. Wesscrounges up another chair, which I move to take, leaving the couch open for the family and Wes in the armchair in the corner.

And, with that, we all settle in and wait.

* * *

Kurt has another seizure at three-thirty-three in the morning; a much gentler, shorter one and rests peacefully for another two hours.

A nurse comes in with the doctor at four-sixteen, bearing the results from their analysis of Kurt's spinal fluids and a new drip bag, and changes out his broad-spectrum antibiotics for this new, targeted batch.

Kurt wakes up at five-forty-nine for thirteen seconds, then falls asleep under a barrage of questions from his doctor and myself.

Cooper brings the boys in at eight-twenty-one, and Kurt wakes up again at eight- fifty-two, this time long enough to ignore all of our poking, prodding, and questions, and recognize River and his father- sixty-five seconds- before he smiles and drifts off again.

"He should wake up sooner this time," I assure Burt, who looks equal parts elated and annoyed, "and stay awake much longer. We'll be able to do a full diagnostic and figure out if anything's been damaged."

He nods, turns back to focus on Jude and River playing at his feet. The boys have brought a train set and laid down track on the linoleum floor, their five-car train with a bright red caboose running in a long figure-eight. Wes had gone to spend a few hours over at his new firm, but not before stopping at his hotel for a much-needed shower and change of clothes. Finn and Cooper, who had been arguing over what to put on the mounted flat-screen, have finally settled on some football game that Burt watches intently for minutes at a time, in between watching his son lying still on the bed and sharing whispers with his wife.

I lean my head back against the wall, and contemplate closing my eyes for a few moments. I'd slept about three hours total during the night, curled up in that hardly-padded chair next to Kurt's bed, and it hadn't done wonders for my mind or my back.

"Papa."

I look down at the word and the accompanying tug on my scrub pants- pink this time, in the hopes that Kurt might wake up just to mock me.

"Papa, I'm hungry," River states, pouts a bit and rubs his tummy for dramatic effect. I don't miss the astonished looks on the other adults' faces, but choose to ignore them for the moment, catching Jude's attention only to find out that he is '_Starving, dad, really_.'

Burt clears his throat a little awkwardly, digs out his wallet and hands me a few large bills. I'm about to hand them back, already shaking my head in protest, but he gives me a very stern look and points a finger at me.

"I want you to take them somewhere to eat, then go do something fun," he states, brooking no argument from me, so I snap my mouth firmly shut and listen intently. "And then, on your way back, if you happen to pass a pizza joint, well, I don't think we'd mind you bringing a couple to share."

"Mushrooms," Cooper calls out from across the rooms. "Mushrooms and pepperoni."

Finn chimes in with, "Olives, too. And peppers."

So Carole ultimately decides, "Just get one with a bunch of meat, and one with a bunch of veggies. The biggest sizes they have."

I smile, I'm tired in a way I haven't been since Jude was a baby and not sleeping through the night, but I smile and feel a little bit more like I've been accepted into a new and wonderful family.

"Come on, boys," I say, rising and gathering up the boys' things to stash in the corner where no one can trip on them, and then we're out of the hospital and into the car. Part of me desperately wants to go back inside, to stand vigil at Kurt's bed until he wakes up completely and I can see with my own eyes that he's alright. But the other part of me wants to eat the largest burger I can get my hands on and wash it down with a milkshake. Or two. _Yeah. That sounds good._

So the boys and I end up at a cute little bistro that has outdoor seating and, though it's November and cold, I've been breathing in nothing but hospital for over twelve hours and need the fresh air. Plus it's just past noon, so the sun is high but not too bright, and it makes the chill much more bearable. I get my burger, the boys get chicken fingers and fries, and we trade the milkshakes for steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

When we've finished, I spend a moment with the boys sitting in the car wondering just what sort of fun things the three of us can do, when River declares he wants to get his daddy a present for when he gets out of the hospital.

I smile and crank the engine. "That," I nod, "sounds perfect."

So I drive straight over to the mall.

* * *

We walk around all of Kurt's usual stops, looking at clothes, shoes, watches, brooches, and everything else, but not one of us can decide on something to get him.

That is, until, Jude spots the pet store.

He and River tug on my shirt, more or less dragging me across the mall, dodging some early Christmas shoppers, and right up to the front windows where a troop of baby bunnies and their mother are playing in some hay.

"Look," Jude points at one that's just upended itself into the food bowl, little hind legs kicking out until it manages to flip the whole thing over, landing in the hay amidst a pile of rabbit pellets and looking quite pleased with itself. "Can we get him a bunny?" he signs enthusiastically. "That one, because it's funny."

I shake my head, _this cannot possibly end well at all_, but let them lead me into the store proper, anyhow.

Immediately upon entering, in a kennel directly to the left, sits a small, white, cotton-ball of a puppy, with large black eyes and looking like it might sit easily in my two cupped palms. I'm vaguely aware of Jude and River both trying to get me to look at the hamsters or the bunnies again, but this little puppy has just picked its head up and is now staring at me. And, I swear, when I lift up my hand and give it a little finger-wiggle wave, it _smiles_ at me.

"Oh," I breathe, feeling a little punched-in-the-gut and out of breath. The puppy, really a shockingly pure shade of white, stands up on stubby and unsure legs, and wobbles right up to the wires of its kennel, snuffling at the bars. I reach out a hand and giggle when the smallest tongue pokes out and catches the tip of my finger.

"American Eskimo," a voice to my right says, and I look up to see a young girl smiling, first down at the puppy, then up at me. River and Jude stop trying to get my attention when they realize something is happening, and both look over at the kennel with joy on their faces.

"She's almost two months," the girl, wearing a blue polo with the shop's logo on the left side of it, continues. "Pure bred; someone's dog had an unexpected litter, and she's the only one left. All the others have been adopted already."

I nod, not paying too close attention to her because the little dog is now trying to nip at my fingers, and hardly succeeding. She loses her footing a bit and stumbles against the side of her crate, squeaking as she startles herself.

"Papa!" River exclaims, and Jude's beaming and nodding next to him. "Can we get her? Please? Please say we can get her!"

I hold out a hand to quiet them both down, as even Jude is making excited vocalizations, and turn the shop assistant.

"Uhm, is there anything I need to know?" I start. I've never really been a dog person, or pet person in general, but something about the puppy is certainly engaging, and I'm thinking that I'm about to go home one dog heavier today. "Like, how big will she get? Does she shed? River, does your dad have allergies? Will she aggravate allergies?"

She looks mildly perplexed when I ask River about his dad, probably because the boy called me 'Papa' not two minutes ago, but she seems more amused than anything and begins to tick things off her fingers.

"She's a 'standard', and they grow up to be anywhere from eighteen to thirty-five pounds. Though she was the smallest of the litter, so you can expect her to be around twenty to twenty-five pounds. They are average shedders, but regular grooming won't make it a problem. There shouldn't be any allergy problems outside the norm, and these dogs are very intelligent and easy to train."

I'm nodding along as she talks, and the boys have crowded around the front of the puppy's kennel, poking their fingers through the wires for her to lick happily at.

"And they're good with children?" I make sure, and she agrees instantly. So, with a sigh and a hand on each boy's back, I take one last look into the kennel and study the tiny dog before straightening and getting the boys to turn towards me.

"Looks like we're getting Kurt a dog," I announce, and the two cheer loudly, enormous grins on their faces. River bounds up and hugs me around the waist, Jude following immediately.

"You're the best Papa _ever_," River states, his voice muffled by my shirt, and, God, every time he says that word I want to cry and laugh and scream and dance, all at the same time.

Instead, I choke it all down and wiggle them away from me so I can use my hands. "You two are going to have to think of a name while I go and get all the things she'll need, okay?"

They nod and instantly put their heads together, hands flying as one of them spells a name, and the other rejects it. I shake my head and follow the shop assistant further into the store to buy a collar, leash, crate, bed, set of bowls, food and treats, and a few small toys. Those, plus the dog, herself, lightens my wallet a bit, but I know we have so much more than enough to cover it. With the girl's help, I quickly set up the crate and stuff the dog bed inside it before she gently transfers the pup from the kennel. The dog settles instantly, curling up in the middle of the bed and snuffling at the soft fleece.

"Alright, boys," I declare, beginning to usher them from the store with a heartfelt 'Thank you' to the helpful girl. "Let me call your Uncle Cooper to meet us at the house, and we'll take her home."

* * *

The boys still haven't decided on a name by the time we've picked up the pizzas and arrive at the house, and when Cooper comes in with Finn and sees the little dog, he starts laughing and can't quite stop for a while.

"It's a present for Daddy!" River proclaims, picking her up and holding her out. "Do you think he'll like it?"

Cooper nods dramatically, cradles the dog close, while River begins to talk Finn's ear off about the bunnies he'd seen at the pet store. Cooper manages to get hold of himself and turns to me while stroking his fingers through soft white fur.

"Squirt," he says, chokes back a wayward chuckle, "Kurt was just waking up again when I left. I told them I'd let you know."

I nod, start gathering up my things, including a few outfits for Kurt and some more scrubs for me, and mention that the pizzas are in the fridge. A kiss for each kid, and a promise to River to bring him to see his dad later in the evening, and I'm out the door.

There's a bit of traffic on the way to the hospital, and it has me drumming my fingers against the steering wheel in mild annoyance and impatience. It does clear, and I toe the line by driving just a few miles above the acceptable speed.

When I dash out of the elevator onto Kurt's floor, I'm immediately aware of a mild commotion down the hall outside his room. There are two nurses and a doctor standing outside, heads bent over a clipboard and folder, and from inside the room comes two voices speaking at once. With a jolt of fear, I stumble into Kurt's room to see Burt and Carole speaking heatedly to one another across the room, and Kurt, himself, sitting up in the bed with a pained expression on his face, looking small and helpless. He turns his head and spots me by the door, smiles and raises an arm to beckon me closer. I'm crying, I'm sure, my cheeks feel a bit damp, but I'm smiling so hard it hurts, he's _awake_, and I bound over to his bed, grab his face in both my hands and kiss him hard on the mouth. He startles, then relaxes, but pushes me off after just a moment, shaking his head a bit. I'm about to ask what he means when Burt seems to finally realize I've come.

"Blaine! Good," he exclaims, walks over to stand at the foot of the bed. "Wes left almost an hour ago, and the Doctor can't find their interpreter. Kurt's been trying to say something ever since he woke up, but we don't know Sign. Do it again, Kurt."

My heart's too big for my throat, but it's there, anyway, wedged up under my tonsils and pounding away. I turn to Kurt, wary, and now _he_'s got tears in his eyes as he raises his hands and signs, "I want to know where my son is. Where is River?"

I open my mouth to answer, and only just catch myself.

_He's deaf, he's deaf, he's deaf, Kurt is _deaf.

With a gulp and a nod, I relay his question to his parents and sign back, "He's with Jude and Cooper at my house. We got you a surprise today. It was River's idea."

At that Kurt smiles, leans back into his pillows and sighs, wiping away some of his tears and taking a few deep, calming breaths.

"How are you feeling?" I ask him, speaking the words as I sign them for the benefit of Kurt's parents. Carole watches my hands intently, like she's trying to learn, while Burt just looks a little thunderstruck. "Your temperature's down, and your vitals look good. Do you need anything?"

Kurt smiles, shakes his head, and points to his rolling tray table that's already been set up with a pitcher of ice water, a cup with a plastic straw, and a few aluminum bowls. Kurt grimaces when I raise a questioning eyebrow at them.

"When I woke up, I puked all over the floor," he explains. "I managed to miss the doctor's hideous shoes, which is a shame, because I started aiming for them after the first heave."

My laugh snorts out, and it's a moment before I can repeat his words out loud for Carole, who giggles and nods, and Burt, who chuckles and moves to ruffle Kurt's hair with a large hand.

Kurt squeaks, bats his hand away, brings his arms up to shield himself from another attack. Burt just grins, shakes his head.

"Kurt?" I grab his attention by tapping at his knee, and then perch on the edge of the bed, facing him, dropping my bag from my shoulder to the floor. "You never answered my question. Does your head hurt? Or anywhere else?"

He rolls his eyes, shakes his head at the ceiling as if saying, '_Why me?_' and gives my leg a condescending pat.

"My head hurts," he states, waves me down when I start to get worked up. "But it isn't awful, so don't go pumping me with drugs when I can manage perfectly well. If it gets too much, I'll tell you straight away."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You promise?"

He nods solemnly, places his right hand over his heart and signs, "Promise," with his left.

After another thirty minutes of conversation, with me interpreting for not only Burt and Carole, but the Doctor, as well, Kurt drifts off with a mighty yawn and a little stretch. We let him sleep in peace, moving over to the sofa under the window to keep an eye on him. Burt manages to make it so that I'm sitting in the middle, with one of Kurt's parents on either side.

"So," Burt whispers, leaning into the back of the couch and folding his arms over his chest. "What's this 'surprise' that River's got for him? Because I've been on the receiving end of some of them before, and, while surprising, they haven't always been…enjoyable."

"A finger-paint mural on our bedroom wall," Carole intones, ticks off on her fingers. "A 'cake' that he'd made out of instant chocolate pudding, goldfish, a banana and a whole bottle of vanilla extract."

Burt interrupts with, "That Lego trap he set up at the front door, tea made from some grass and a dandelion he'd plucked from the front yard."

"Soap dispenser filled with glue."

"Food coloring in every toilet."

And together, "And couch cushions painted purple."

I'm laughing so hard, but trying to keep quiet to hopefully retain some dignity, but it's so hard while imagining a younger River running around wreaking havoc with the best of intentions. Jude's never really been rambunctious, always quite stoic and thoughtful, so I've never been able to see something like that first-hand.

I get a handle on myself, shake my head and choke back another laugh. "No, nothing like that. We got a puppy. He wanted a rabbit at first, but I saw this little puppy and I just…had to have her."

Burt gets a little twinkle in his eye. "Ah, so it's really _your_ dog?"

My face heats up, and I twist my hands together in discomfort. "I was thinking…_our _dog?"

"How will that work," Carole asks gently, honestly confused, "when you live in two separate houses?"

_Moment of truth. Oh my goodness._ "I was actually hoping, maybe after the holidays, or early next year, that Kurt and River could…_moveinwithus_."

Carole gasps, and the older man startles, physically flinches back and away from me, and I cringe, waiting for both shoes to drop. But he surprises me by laying a hand across my shoulders and gently urging me to look up at him.

"Kid," he starts quietly, "you really want that with my son?"

My nod is immediate and sure. But he still looks skeptical, sighs and rubs his face with his other hand.

"Look, I'm not trying to say one way or the other what you should do," he says very clearly, "because you're both adults, and I trust you both. But Kurt…he's told me some of what went on between you and your ex-husband. I just want to be sure that you're ready for that, and not just for Kurt's sake, but yours as well."

"I just…" I start, not really sure where I'm going or what to say, but I try to say it, anyway, "On the one hand, I don't want to waste any time I have with him and River, because I love them both so much and want them with me all the time. But then again, Burt, we've only known each other for six months, and I don't want to move so fast we burn out within the year, you know?"

Burt nods, and Carole pats her hand on my knee in comfort.

"Has Kurt ever told you about his mother?" Burt asks suddenly, turning to face his son on the bed. Kurt snuffles a bit in his sleep, shifts and tugs at his tubing in discomfort. I pop up quickly to move the stand closer to the bed to give him more slack. He settles again, so I lean down to kiss his forehead tenderly before moving back to the couch.

"I know she died when he was quite young," I say with a shrug, wiggling back into the cushions and drawing my feet up under me. "He doesn't like to talk about her too much."

The older man nods, keeps staring at his boy. "I married her ten months after I met her."

At my shocked gasp, he chuckles and removes his baseball cap with one hand, rubs the top of his bald head with the other.

"It didn't take us too long to figure out we didn't want anybody else," he goes on to explain, settling his cap back on his head and turning to fix his level gaze on me. "Kid, when something feels that _right_, that _essential_, it really doesn't matter how long you've known the person. So if you feel, deep down and with everything you have, that Kurt is the one for you, then I don't think you could ever 'move too fast'."

I'm nodding as Carole interjects with, "But you'll need to talk with him about it, too. Don't just assume he won't want to move in with you just because it's only been six months."

I scoff, but there's a smile on my face, too. "Cooper said something very similar the other day." I study my shoes for a moment. "When Kurt's home, and well again, I will definitely talk with him. I just hope he feels the same way."

This time, it's Burt who scoffs, and he brings a heavy hand down to clap my shoulder. "Kid, I don't think you have a single thing to worry about. He can hardly shut up about you and that boy of yours when he calls, and it doesn't take a genius to see how much more comfortable he is with you than he ever was with Henry."

I frown at the name, my tongue working in my mouth to fight against the awful taste that just _hearing_ it brings.

"Being with Kurt feels so different, so much _better_ and _more_ than being with Paul did," I add, toying at my shoelaces and glancing up with a fond grin when Kurt lets out a little snore and mumbles something incoherent.

"He's not still bothering you, is he?" Carole asks, reaches over me to brush at a bit of lint on Burt's shirt. "Kurt mentioned he'd finally signed the divorce papers, but he hasn't pulled any stunts like Henry?"

I swallow, shake my head, swallow again. "No," I say, voice thick. "No, he…he died. Not too long ago." It's not that I feel bad for him, or miss him, because I don't, but it's still a strange thing to come to terms with, and I haven't quite grasped the idea that Paul will never be able to hurt me or Jude ever again.

Burt nods while Carole tucks me into her side for a quick hug. She's about to say something when there's a commotion outside the door, and then it bangs open to admit a haggard Wes, who catches one foot on the other and crashes to the tile floor in a mess of limbs. There's an awful snapping sound, and Wes yelps, immediately bringing his left hand up to cradle it against his chest.

"Holy _fuck_," he hisses through clenched teeth, and I'm up and at his side in an instant to assess the damage while simultaneously glancing over at the bed to check on Kurt before remembering, of course, that he can't hear all the noise.

I shake my head at Wes and get him to sit up against the wall, looking over his obviously fractured wrist. "You would, Wes. You _would _break your wrist _in a hospital_."

He grins, not one bit sorry, and apparently in very little pain. But the skin around his wrist is already turning colors, and he'll need an x-ray and a cast soon enough. He waves off my attempts to get him down to the Imaging Center, though, with a manic grin.

"I just got the _best_ news!" he crows, gesturing with his uninjured hand at his pocket where I assume his phone is. "My buddy in back in Westerville just called, said Henry was picked up after he drove his car into a tree in someone's front yard. He tested at _three times_ the legal limit, and, get this, his _father_ was in the passenger seat! Henry hit the tree broadside, completely smashed the passenger side, broke six of his dad's ribs and gave him a head wound, to boot." Wes takes a deep breath before delivering the blow: "Mr. Morgan bled out before the paramedics arrived, and Henry is in custody looking at some serious jail time."

Sometime during the story, Burt had risen and moved to stand over us, a look of pure disbelief on his face mixed with elation and relief. "How much jail time are we talking, Wes?"

The lawyer continues to grin. "Fifteen years _at least_, and over ten-thousand dollars in fines. There's no _fucking way _he's going to be getting anywhere near Kurt or River ever again."

Burt hauls Wes up from the floor and into a bear hug, while I wrap my arms joyously around Carole and swing her around in an ebullient circle. Wes' dramatic entrance may not have woken Kurt, but he sure does when I release Carole and bound over to him, lean right up against him and fix our mouths firmly together. He wakes with a snort and a gasp, participates briefly in the kiss before shoving me off and raising an eyebrow empirically.

And when I sign out what's happened, he brings a hand to his mouth to stifle his relieved sobs, leans into me, and lets me rock him back to an exhausted sleep.

When he's sleeping soundly, and Wes has been patched up, and Cooper's been called, and Burt and Carole have left to spend time with the boys at my house, I curl up on the bed with Kurt, draw him tight to my side, and sing softly into his hair, too happy to remember that he can't hear me.

"_Everything's coming up roses and daffodils; everything's coming up sunshine and Santa Clause! Everything's gonna be bright lights and lollipops; everything's coming up roses for me and for you!"_

* * *

_A/N: I would very much like to thank you all for taking the time to read my story and comment on it; you're all so very inspiring, and it is truly appreciated._

_AND. In light of a review: I know they're all being sort of crass regarding Henry. I promise they're not all suddenly awful people. But the gist of it is, and it'll be explained next chapter, that, right now, there's only so much they all can process and handle. With Kurt's health still up in the air, Blaine's internal wishy-washyness, and Jude's upcoming appointment, in that moment, they all sort of just grasped onto the 'this is awesome' part, and not the more devastating aspect. Give it a bit. It'll sink. They'll get it. _

_Thanks for reading!_

_**Chrisch:**__ My father is German and Polish, but we live in the U.S., so I've been learning ASL first and foremost. That said, I've also learned basic conversational Signing in Russian (Pусский Жестовый Язык), Polish (Polski Język Migowy) and German (Deutsche Gebärdensprache). I don't claim any true proficiency in those, however, as I've been learning them very informally and mostly for fun._

_P.S.:: I've been playing Blainequest, and, first off, one of the many reasons I love this fandom is because of the sheer creativity and chutzpah a lot of members have. I commend this person for making an entire (not to mention non-profit and FREE) game with these characters. That said, I AM HOPELESSLY STUCK. So if any of you have played it and can tell me how to get into the desert, I would very much appreciate it._


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